


Breathless

by Rovardotter



Series: Not with a Bang but a Whimper [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A certain degree of Incest, Dirty dirty things, Jon What are you doing Just stop, M/M, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Sept Sex, Winterfell is a Warzone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon cannot rule over Winterfell, but he can rule over the heir to Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. À Bout de Souffle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not the Talking Kind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/688618) by [when_winterfell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/when_winterfell/pseuds/when_winterfell). 



> The story was inspired by the wonderful "Not the Talking Kind" which you should read right now - like seriously, right now. 
> 
> I'm trying to stick to the books in everything that matters. However, book ages don't give us a lot to play with. So I've settled on somewhere between book ages and TV show ages. Robb quotes '15 years' in the second chapter. You can take it to mean 15 years since Jon was conceived, born _or_ brought to Winterfell, depends on how underage you'd like them to be. :P 
> 
> Oh, and this is pre-direwolves. Just to give me a little more room to breathe.
> 
> Theon & Robb are tagged as "&" for lack of a symbol indicating a fucked up, not really sexual, not really non-sexual relationship. Maybe % could work?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was an uncanny feeling to drag himself up the tower in the late hours of the evening, with his breath reeking of wine and the thought of all the dirty, _dirty_ things Jon intended to do to him once they got there.
> 
> Chapter 1, in which Robb escapes a feast and finds more than he bargained for.

Just then, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

The Great Hall swayed back and forth in front of his eyes. Robb could feel the bile rising up in his throat, joining the bittersweet taste of all the Arbor gold he'd managed to pour into his mouth before the fever had set in with a vengeance. He curled his hands into fists until his knuckles turned white, clutching the high table's silvery linen cover. It was all he could do to stop himself from falling.

From across the table he could hear the Karstarks and the Manderlys burst into a bawdy song, that long tune about the bear, and their shouts threatened to drown him whole. Robb's eyes screwed shut.  _Fuck the bear, fuck the maiden fair_ , he thought hazily.  _And fuck that constant murmur which just won't go away. I must forget, I must. Forget the things he did to me, the things he said to me_ –

"Turn around". And those hands nudging him towards the window. And that calm voice telling him ( _no,_ _commanding him_ ) to grab the window sill. And the dirty,  _dirty_  things Jon did to him.

When was it? When had it happened, if it'd happened at all? Yesterday, three days ago? Robb could not tell, and that bear song was making it harder for him to focus. He sent his arm forward, blindly searching for something – more wine, mayhaps – to cool down the fever burning inside his mind. It had been burning just as madly when Jon sneaked his fingers inside Robb's breeches and made him watch,  _watch, watch_ –

Lord Karstark and ( _gods, what are their names again?_ ) his three sons were slamming their fists on the high table: "She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair!" The words echoed hollow in Robb's ears. _It wasn't like that, though_ , he thought, rubbed his eyes, the wine forgotten. _That's not how it happened at all_.

Robb had never kicked, never wailed. He'd just whimpered softly, like a trapped animal, and he watched through the window just as he'd been ordered to. He watched Theon and Arya down by the inner yard, Theon gracefully shooting his arrows, smugly cocking his brow whenever he'd hit the practice target ( _always_ ). And Arya, fierce little Arya, observing Theon with big starry eyes. He watched Sansa passing through the court with Septa Mordane in tow, and the Septa calling a miserable Arya to follow them ( _some more needlework lessons, no doubt_ ) while Jon's fingers ran softly on the tip of his cock. And he never kicked, never wailed, and Jon licked the beads of sweat rolling down his neck and pulled his palm along his length, gently at first, then harder, faster, as Robb watched,  _watched, watched_ – watched his lady mother crossing the yard, Lady Catelyn with her long auburn hair tied at the back of her head, the same colour as his own, and if only she knew, gods, if only she knew all the dirty,  _dirty_  things her lord husband's bastard son was doing to her firstborn, to her pride and joy. And Robb spent his seed all over Jon's fingers, moaning and shivering so violently that his legs had given under him, and it was all he could do to –

_Hold the tablecloth, you'll be fine. You will. Just hold on._

As though their fists weren't making enough racket, they started thumping their wine cups on the wooden table to the accelerating beat of the music. Robb's vision turned black, the thick air of the Great Hall engulfing him, choking him. And it suddenly dawned on him, simple as fact, that they knew. They all knew. Sansa knew, raising the cup to her lips and courteously smiling in the general direction of whoever it was. And Bran knew; mayhaps he'd climbed up the tower, been hanging by his feet, head down, breath held, watching his older brothers and all the dirty,  _dirty_  things Jon was doing to Robb. And his lord father knew. Nothing had ever escaped the Lord of Winterfell. And the Manderlys, the Karstarks, the Mallisters of the fucking Riverlands, and Theon Greyjoy, smirking at him like an overfed cat – Theon always knew it all.

And his lady mother. She knew.

He stood up in his seat with such sudden force that Lady Catelyn immediately looked at him. "Robb?" she asked. "Are you well?"

 _This will not do_ , he thought.  _I have to get out of here_. He could only put up the act for so long. If they kept looking at him, they might be able to leech the memory of what had happened out of his mind.  _Witchcraft, fucking sorcery, it is_. It would be enough for them to gaze into the blue of his eyes, and all the guests in the Great Hall, all of his lord father's bannermen, they would know.

It would be his downfall.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said, hands still curled to fists on the table. He tried to level his voice, to sound reasonable, in control, more like Lord Stark's eldest son and less like a ruin of a boy who only yesterday – or three days ago, or never, except in the land of delirium – had his own half-brother pressed close behind him, nuzzling and kissing and –

"I still don't feel well," Robb faintly explained to no one in particular, painfully aware of the curious eyes fixed on him from all around the high table. "I must be excused."

With that he pushed the heavy chair back and escaped the high table, descending from the dais just slowly enough to avoid falling down. He felt their eyes burning on his back, sucking out that afternoon in his bedchamber, with Jon's fingers inside his breeches, and Robb's white tunic folded up and tucked under his arms, and Jon steadying him with his other hand – and – "Watch," Jon had said. "Watch."

Robb should have watched. He should've watched out for himself. Now it was too late, he had already fallen. His head swirled. He passed through the Great Hall; his shoulders brushed against servants, kitchen maids, a red faced Ser Rodrik, two Mallister cousins, distantly related from his mother's side, Arya with her hair covered in pease pudding, singing loudly and out of tune with a spoon in her hand. He could not tell what was truly there and what was just his imagination,  _but if it's only a delirium then Jon should be here, and by the gods he isn't_. Someone ran by him and almost knocked him down ( _"apologies, m'lord!_ ") and there were loud giggles and the thick scent of liquor, the watered ale of the lower benches, still so excruciatingly harsh on his nose. He thought he would puke right there on the stone floor, for all the lords and servants to behold, but just then someone opened the great oaken doors, and Robb slipped outside into the corridor leading to the courtyard, into fresh air, into a sliver of sanity.

 

Outside the air was chilly and crisp and it smelled of summer winds. Robb leant against the outer wall of the Great Hall and breathed deeply and slowly. There were few people about now that the feast was at its peak, and as long as he remained with his back to the wall, he expected no one would pay him much attention.

 _That's good. No attention is good_. It was a relief not to have all those prying eyes on him. There was no way they could've known, though, was there? Mayhaps he was still very ill, mayhaps something was truly wrong with him, apart from  _that_  memory and the way he'd been forced to bite on his fist to keep his voice down, to keep from whimpering too loudly as Jon's hand curled around his cock and pressed him firmly to his half-brother's hips.  _I could feel him, it truly happened. I could feel everything_. Mayhaps he should go and see Maester Luwin, ask for a remedy to help with his sleep ( _and those memories_ ) since Arbor gold clearly wasn't strong enough.

Robb heaved himself with some difficulty away from the wall, his legs almost buckling under him, and he made a start to cross the courtyard. Where to, he was still not sure. To the Maester's, or to his bedchamber, to whichever place his befuddled mind would lead him. His lord father had once told him: Robb, never head out before you know your goal. Theon had once said to him: Robb my lad, never loose the arrow before you've set out your target. And yet, there he was, fumbling blindly through the deserted courtyard, and that would be his downfall.

"Stark."

Robb stopped dead on his tracks, face turned to stone.

"Snow," he said, but did not turn his head.

"Keep walking," Jon said and prodded him gently forward, "and keep quiet."

For a moment Robb stood extremely still, his mouth drawn into a thin, feeble line. Then his legs,  _those treacherous legs_ , started moving as if on their own, trudging quietly on the gravel and mud of the courtyard.  _But what else can I do?_  Even if he went to the Maester's, or to his bedchamber, wouldn't Jon just follow? If he went back, yes, back to the Great Hall, to the bear and the maiden fair, back to his lady mother –  _gods, that ought to do it, Mother will protect me_. Jon would never chase him there, to the dais and the high table and their lord father's bannermen. If Robb returned there, asked for quarter, he would be safe.

And they crossed the courtyard away from the Great Hall, Robb first and his half-brother behind him, so close that Robb could feel his warm breath on his neck.

Jon said, "To the library tower."

Robb made no response, but he moved through the inner gates separating the Great Hall courtyard from the outer practice yard. The guard in the left tower waved at them. Mayhaps Jon waved back, but Robb kept his eyes fixed straight ahead on the narrow external stairs snaking their way up the old library tower of Winterfell.

There he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, feeling the fur of Jon's collar brushing against his back. He breathed heavily, gathering up the will to speak.

"We will be seen," Robb said.

"Aye," said Jon. "Make it quick, Stark."

For years Robb had been climbing those winding steps on his way to the daily lessons with Maester Luwin ( _History of the First Men and the Andals and Aegon the Conqueror and the rulers of the Free Cities and which fucking minor house had a fucking blue ferret as its sigil._ ) Yet it was uncanny to drag himself up in the late hours of the evening with his breath reeking of wine, the numbing fear that every single person in Winterfell could see him with Jon, and the thought of all the dirty,  _dirty_  things Jon intended to do to him once they got there.

Up at the top landing, near the entrance to the tower, the wind was blowing harsher; it flapped through Robb's fur-lined cloak and his auburn curls. _The door will be locked_ , he desperately thought,  _Gods, it must be locked_. It was late in the evening, there were guests in the Great Hall and the Maester of the castle was already in his tower. There was no reason for the door to be unlocked except that  _fuck,_   _it was_. It opened silently, welcoming them into the darkness of the library tower, where only the ghostly moonlight streamed from the high iron-framed windows on the cold stone floor. It shone on the endless rows of shelves, bookcases and cabinets with the thousands of leather-bound thick volumes they held, lining the wall all the way from the door to the private study by the other side of the tower.

"Inside," said Jon, and seeing as Robb hesitated a moment too long, he nudged him again into the black of the room, and shut the door behind them.

 _This is it_ , Robb thought.

He stood planted to the spot for a while longer, wrapping his cloak about him and letting the bite of the northern summer wind slowly fade from his skin. A red hot blush rose up his cheeks instead, and he felt lightheaded and not altogether awake as he listened to Jon breathing behind him. Then, gnawing on his lower lip and as if in an afterthought, he mumbled: "What now?" His stomach churned; his insides tightened into a painful knot.

In response Jon clutched Robb's cloak and turned him around to face him. It was the first time Robb looked at his half-brother since that afternoon – _yesterday, or three days ago, because all signs seem to point that it did happen, it did fucking happen, oh gods_. Now they both watched each other good and proper, dark grey eyes to bright blue eyes, and Jon slowly drew them into the dark of the library. They were roughly the same age  _(or were they_ , Robb did have his suspicions) and Jon was leaner than his half-brother, but having met no resistance from Robb, he easily made him move step after step towards the closest library aisle, all the while running his hands over Robb's waist, under his cloak, into the warmth of skin hiding under the soft woollen tunic.

Robb whimpered slightly as he was pushed with his back to the bookcase. Jon's face was frighteningly close; his left hand was crawling from Robb's waist to his shoulders.  _This is truly it, then_. He had nowhere to run even if he wanted to, and did he want to? He never kicked, never wailed, instead he screwed his eyes shut again, leant his head back on the shelf and felt the world swirl around him as Jon thumbed the soft bristles of auburn hair on his chin.

"Your eyes. Open them." Jon mumbled. "I want you to see."

"See what?" Robb's voice was hoarse, and he felt Jon's tongue fluttering over his lips. His thumb still trailed up Robb's chin until his half-gloved hand cupped it completely.

"Come on, Stark," Jon whispered to Robb's lips. "Do it."

Robb forced himself to open his eyes, and he stood very still as Jon's fingers tightened around his chin, his lips almost on Robb's, and his right hand holding him securely in place against the bookcase. He didn't kiss him, not then, not even when Robb let out a soft moan and wriggled uneasily under Jon's hands, trying to move closer without even realising he was doing so.  _My downfall_ , he dimly thought.

"Eyes open, Stark." Jon ordered. "Keep them open."

With that he dropped to his knees, and Robb groaned, shakily, disbelievingly as fingers yanked on the ties of his breeches under the woollen tunic.  _Tunic in white and breeches in grey,_   _I was all so properly dressed for the feast._   _By gods I tried to forget, I tried so hard_. His tunic was then pulled halfway to his chest, along with his linen undershirt. He stood trembling with his back to the bookcase, his legs slightly spread apart, his skin exposed under the thick cloak, and his (e _mbarrassing, uncontrollable, fuck it and fuck you Jon to seven hells for making me go through this again_ ) erection protruding through the undone laces of his breeches.

He tried hard to watch as he'd been told to, but as he felt the tip of Jon's tongue touching his cock, an arrow of such mixed, contradicting feelings pierced him from his erection up to the bile rising in his throat, and his limbs felt boneless, unable to support his weight. His hands burrowed into the closest shelf in the library, and he could not,  _would not_ , look at that shameful, dirty,  _dirty_  thing Jon had in mind to do.

Robb knew all about these things. More than he cared to, in fact, what with Theon's boasting at the archery range and the bannermen's vulgar japes when his lady mother was out of earshot. But there was still a world of difference between Theon drunkenly squeezing his shoulders ( _"but truly, little Lord Robb, you need to get a whore between those legs of yours, lad"_ ) and this,  _this_ , Jon fucking Snow, his own half-brother, kneeling in front of him and taking his cock inside his mouth.

Robb closed his eyes again; he let out a sound that was half a moan, half a pitiful sob.

Jon pulled his head back, loosened his grip on Robb's hip, and smacked him lightly on his thigh. "Open them, Stark," he growled. Robb swallowed hard and opened his eyes, mumbling incoherently: "I know, sorry, sorry." His wobbly voice drowned in little moans as Jon's mouth wrapped again around his cock, so warm and wet Robb could do nothing else but try to hold on, clutching the bookshelf, moving his legs further apart to allow Jon closer, as he forced himself ( _by the gods both old and new, I should not be looking at this, it is immoral, against all laws of nature and man_ ) to keep his eyes wide open. Jon moved faster, rising higher on his knees, fingers clawing into the pale skin of Robb's hips, lips rubbing on the length of his cock. Robb had to bite his lower lip, then his upper, so that the pain and the iron taste of blood might prevent him from shutting his eyes. The world went white, all lost except Jon's lips and Jon's mouth and –

It all then seemed to happen at once, _impossible to turn around, no way to stop this anymore_. His fingers left the bookshelf and twisted in Jon's hair. He let out a desperate grunt, and now past the point of no return, spent himself in his half-brother's mouth, whimpering something or other – "Jon" or "Snow" or "fuck", it could have been any – as his legs buckled under him. Jon pulled back, spitting his seed on the stone floor, and Robbfell with a dull thud to the ground just as the door opened.

It squeaked loudly on its hinge, letting in the nightly chill, and inside the library came Maester Luwin, and right after him, closing the door between them and the summer storm brewing outside, entered their lord father.

The boys ( _that is all we are, isn't it? Just a pair of boys about to doom themselves_ ) scuttled back until their heads pressed against the curved stone wall of the library. Robb was still shaking violently; Jon wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly in place, his palm covering Robb's mouth to drown any sound he might let out.

"– this will not happen," said Lord Eddard as he closed the door.

"Not in your lifetime, my lord," said the Maester, "but your son sees the boy as his own brother. If this knowledge dies with you and me –"

"Mayhaps we ought to let it die. I did what I could for him. Bringing him to Winterfell was the right decision, I have never regretted that," said Lord Eddard, and Robb could see with a sense of growing panic the grey lining of his lord father's cloak as both men passed along the aisle where he and Jon were hiding.

"Yes, of course," said the Maester, "but as brothers… You realise, my lord, as the Lord of Winterfell your son will be able to give the boy your house's name – And if the Snow becomes a Stark –"

"It is not as easy as that."

"No, not easy, but it can be done."

Their voices grew fainter as they walked the length of the room to the private study's thick oaken door. A jingle of keys resonated throughout the silent room ( _surely they can hear us as well_ ) and Lord Eddard said: "When the time is right, I will let Robb know."

"Would it be enough to dissuade him?"

Robb couldn't make out his lord father's answer now that the men had stepped inside the study. Jon's hand over his mouth had stiffened in an almost painful way, but he dared not move for fear of being noticed. They sat motionless for what felt like a very long time before they heard Lord Eddard's voice again, "Illegitimate son? It could have been worse for him. It  _was_  worse for the others. No, Jon will stay by Robb's side. That's as good a place as any."

"You assume a lot, my lord," said the Maester as the lock clicked back in place, "including your son's future loyalty to the crown."

"Robb will be loyal." They were marching back to the tower entrance; the boys held their breath and stilled their muscles, striving to not make a single sound. "He has no choice. The dragons are gone."

It was a long while after the Maester and Lord Eddard had left that Robb found the force to move again. By then Jon's hand had loosened its grip on his face, and the two turned to look at each other, blue to grey, with all the implications of the past and the future suddenly all too visible between them.

"Jon –" Robb started faintly.

"Enough, Robb," Jon said, not unkindly, and he enveloped his half-brother –  _or whatever it is we are to each other_  – closer to him, "I've heard. Gods, I have heard."


	2. Bande à Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could be he had pushed him too far. Could be it was not far enough. He needed a sign, a reaction. He wanted Robb down on his knees, needed to make sure _the little lordling_ was up to take all that was coming his way.
> 
> Chapter 2, in which Jon needs Robb to do more than just look.

Robb had held out for two whole days.

Jon grudgingly respected that.  _Didn't think it would be that long_ , he reflected as he ladled another serving of rich bean soup into his bowl and helped himself to a couple more sausages. Then he settled back in his seat at the morning table between Arya and a still drowsy Rickon. Right across from Robb, who every now and then gave him an intense glare, then lowered his eyes to intensely glare at his soup instead.

And wasn't it an exquisite kind of torture, to be so close to Robb and yet unable to do anything? And the best part was that  _they_  knew nothing. He could easily send his foot forward to brush against his brother's. He could fumble with his fingers on Robb's curls as he passed him by on the way to his seat. Jon could have done a hundred little things to satiate that hollow hunger which deepened inside him with every passing hour. Instead, he had broken his fast, done his chores, studied his letters, supped at the lower benches and gone to sleep with his hands kept strictly to himself. 

It wasn't the fear of being caught ( _that fear was always present in whatever he did, with Robb or without, for his transgressions were never leniently glossed over as those of his trueborn siblings_ ) and it wasn't the fact that Lady Stark seemed to have become omnipresent or that Greyjoy had taken to follow Robb around like a lost mutt. It wasn't even the sense of dread he'd been nursing since that night in the library tower, or the bittersweet shame for his elaborated plans of what exactly he was going to do to  _the little lordling_.

"They are leaving overmorrow," Arya said, gobbling down her soup. "The Karstarks at least. It'll be really quiet here once they're gone." She looked crestfallen; Arya loved anything that broke the tedium of sewing lessons and recitals of selected passages from The Seven-Pointed Star. Jon could not help but feel sorry for her.

"Will they go hunting with Father?" asked Bran. "Before they leave?"

"The Karstarks, aye," said Greyjoy, "but as for the Manderlys, I can't imagine Lord Fat-Arse hunting anything other than his next meal."

Bran chuckled, but Robb bristled immediately. "That's quite enough, Theon," he chided. And his eyes met Jon's again.

 _No, it's not fear_ , Jon thought.  _It's just that I have already made my move_.

He had to. Left to his own devices, Robb would have probably given him those intense glares with lost blue eyes until they were both old and wrinkled and ( _at least one of them_ ) buried in the crypts beneath Winterfell for eternity. No, Robb was hesitant, full of bravado and eager to please, but even quicker to withdraw at the sign of trouble. He was almost a man grown ( _and apparently could make Greyjoy shut his trap if need b_ e), but in some ways he was still a child. He required some good prodding, had to be guided by the hand, step by step. And wasn't it always touch and go? Jon was never quite sure how Robb would react each time he pushed him forward.

But now that game was done with. Jon had already held Robb tight, wrapped his arms around his waist, made him whimper and beg. Jon had whispered orders in his ears, made him obey in front of their family's blissfully ignorant eyes. And he'd made Robb come and his body go limp with the sweetest and most desperate moan Jon had ever heard. And now it was his brother's turn to play. It was all in his hands, for better or worse.  _And if I push him too far, then I have lost him already._

"Will you join the hunt, Robb?" asked Sansa. Her auburn hair was plaited into two thick braids which in turn were curled to a tight ball at the back of her head. She claimed it to be a Riverlands style, and wore it every time they had guests in Winterfell. Arya said it was a donkey style and Sansa looked like an ass with a potato on its head. Luckily for everyone involved, she had yet to express that opinion in front of her older sister.

"I'd like to," Robb answered his sister with his gaze still fixed on Jon, absently playing with his spoon. "Father's left me some work to do. The visit is keeping him busy, see. If I can get it all done by the morrow…"

"Do you suppose Ser Patrek would join as well?"

Greyjoy snorted loudly and the colour rose in Sansa's cheeks, however Robb seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding at the family table.

"Don't know, Sansa. Want me to ask him?"

"No!" she said, and then added more quietly, "no, no need," and Greyjoy snorted again.

Jon found himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat, frustrated with Robb's hard, unreadable gaze.  _His turn, aye, but I need him to do more than just look_. Could be he had pushed him too far already. Could be it was not far enough. He needed a sign, a reaction. He wanted Robb down on his knees, needed to make sure  _the little lordling_  was up to take all that was coming his way.

 _Gods, but he's hard to read_. Jon prided himself on having a certain talent for reading other people, but in truth it was not due to any particular ability of his. More than anything, being what he was ( _a bastard, the basest of the baseborn, a creature of lust and betrayal)_ made him somewhat invisible in Winterfell. Men would not watch what they were saying around him as much as they would around the Stark children. And so Jon had plenty of opportunities to hear things which mayhaps were not meant for his ears. Septon Chayle wanted to take the weirwood down, would that he could. And Maester Luwin told Jory Cassel all about the secret passageways in the castle, some old and known, some new, some have not been in use since the days of Brandon the Builder. And Greyjoy had tried to run away once, ridden a few leagues south on the Kingsroad, then headed back.

Jon knew all that and more. He had even found some of the old passageways by himself. But he never truly knew what Robb was thinking. Robb had many faces, almost as many as the different emotions he was able to stir in Jon: Robb the child, like the memory of a lost summer day; Robb the warrior, in armour and a sword in hand, fierce and reckless; Robb the brother, with Rickon in his lap, with Arya in his arms, a quick peck to Sansa when he is certain Greyjoy isn't looking, tickling Bran until they both collapse laughing; Robb  _his_  brother, which used to mean long evenings under their furs in front of the hearth, until it had become  _unseemly_  for the heir to spend so much of his time with the bastard. Then came Robb the lording,  _the little lording_ , which drove Jon into a storm of overwhelming feelings he was not used to having, to hurt and lust so wild Jon wanted to shout at him, or beat him up, or fuck him hard, he was not sure which. He had to keep reminding himself not to be angry. Robb did not choose this, no more than Jon did.

And now it was definitely Robb the lordling who leant back in his chair and tore his gaze from Jon to Sansa. "I don't think he would, though," he said. "The Mallisters would be joining the prayer in the sept before they leave, most like."

"How can they prefer prayer over hunting?" Arya wondered, and Bran nodded sagely in agreement.

"It's one of their holidays tomorrow," said Robb.

"Mayhaps it's Maiden Day, Sansa," Greyjoy gave a crooked smile, "then you –"

"Think carefully of your next words, Theon," said  _the little lordling_ , and Jon found that he had lost his appetite. With a sigh he placed his spoon down on his plate, pushed back his chair and rose to leave. Robb's eyes followed him up immediately.  _Come on, sweet Robb, say something, now is as good a time as any._

"Snow?"

"Yes?"  _Just a sign._

But Robb just stared at him with lost blue eyes. "See you later," he said, and bit down on his lip.

 

The sun was setting; a brilliant canvas of purples and reds bloomed over the western skies. Jon was drenched in mud and sweat after practice, and his patience was wearing thin. He needed a change of clothing, a hot bath and mayhaps a good wank as well. Instead he helped Ser Rodrik put the tourney swords and the longbows back in the armoury, while Robb had conveniently spirited himself away.  _Fucking spoilt brat, seven hells with that_.

A shadow crept by the entrance to the armoury. For one short moment Jon thought it was his brother, before he saw the darker, leaner figure of his lord father's ward.

"Snow," Greyjoy propped himself up against the door frame, uncharacteristically acknowledging Jon's presence. That could only mean he was after something.

"Greyjoy," Jon replied blankly.

"Seen Robb anywhere?"

Jon shook his head.

"You're certain? Used to be we never saw one of you without the other."

Jon shrugged and turned his back to Greyjoy. He continued to place the bows and swords back on the high racks against the eastern wall. "He said Father had left him some work. Try the solar," he finally allowed, seeing as Greyjoy had made no move to leave.

"Already checked there. Anywhere else he might be?"

"I don't know," said Jon through gritted teeth. "I'm not my brother's warden."

"How droll." And he could feel Greyjoy's smile behind his back, crooked and obscene. "And even droller than you think, since you're not truly his brother, are you?"

Jon froze. He looked back at Greyjoy, who was now slowly advancing towards him.  _What is he talking about? What does he know?_

"The way I was taught," Greyjoy took another step forward, "a bastard is nobody's brother, nobody's son. Lord Stark took you into his house, that much is true, but don't think that makes you something you are not, Snow," he spat the name out like a rotten seed.

"And what am I not?" Jon hissed back, despite himself.

"Robb's brother.  _Sansa_ 's brother. Somebody. You're nobody. A bastard is not a person," Greyjoy said, and now his twisted, hateful face was directly in front of Jon's. "You know what we do to bastards on the Iron Islands?" He drawled. "They don't even exist before they have proven their value. We give them to the Drowned God, push their head down to the salt water. If He decides to bring them back, well, they might just be worth something. And if they die, one bastard less, no great loss."

Jon breathed deeply, his hands curling to fists and his fingers digging into his palm.  _He will not receive any response from me. That's all he's after. Just trying to provoke me._

"Mayhaps we shall check and see if you're worth something, Snow?" Greyjoy lowered his face against Jon's. He then placed his large hand on Jon's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. He was no longer smiling. It was suddenly very dark in the armoury.

"Stop it," a voice came from the door. Robb was standing at the entrance, his grey cloak wrapped around his shoulders, the sunset bathing his hair in a blood red shade. His hand was on his sword hilt. "Stop it right now."

The smile immediately returned to Greyjoy's dark face. He pulled his hands away from Jon and raised them up in mock surrender. "If you draw steel for every bastard, Robb," he said cheerfully, "you will not be the Lord of Winterfell for very long."

"Hopefully by the time I am Lord, you and Snow would not come to fists in the armoury," said Robb dryly, but his hand had moved away from the sword. Greyjoy chuckled and stepped away from Jon towards the exit _._

"As you say," he motioned Robb to follow him. "Now let us go."  _It's like it's all just a game to him, like nothing has really happened._  But he had been serious before, had he not? For an instant there, Theon Greyjoy had been serious.

"Not so fast," said Robb and with a deliberate motion released the buckle of his sword belt, letting it drop down to the armoury floor. "Ser Rodrik still requires you to put the arms back in place."

"That was Snow's task," Greyjoy said.

Robb's face stilled. He bit down on his lip. The moment stretched. And he took the leap of faith.

"He is needed elsewhere," said  _the little lordling_  and turned his back to them, striding outside. "Walk with me, Snow."

 

Robb knelt before the white weirwood and placed his trembling hands on the cold damp earth. Jon looked around, making sure they were alone, and then followed suit.

Jon had only ever prayed in the godswood, but his brother's sense of piety was somewhat more fickle. He would often join the prayer in his lady mother's sept, kneel in front of the Warrior or the Father and mumble a silent prayer the words of which Jon could merely guess. Robb would do it for Lady Stark's sake, Jon suspected, since he seemed to save another kind –  _a truer kind_  – of prayer for the godswood. That was where he could be found whenever his lady mother was heavy with child, with his knees sinking deep into the fallen red leaves, his brow touching the weirwood just below the ancient carved face, his fingers laced together on the wet ground.

To Jon the question of faith was simple enough. They were children of the North, through and through. Their prayer was not meant for stone floors and cold marble. Only with the earth under their feet, they could silently, desperately pray for things the Children of the Forest had understood but a septon never would.

And was there a better place than the godswood for this? The breaking of a Westerosi lordling, Robb's letter of submission, as witnessed by the Old Gods and the bleeding eyes of the heart tree. It was almost lyrical, and that thought helped Jon keep silent while Robb struggled with his first words.

"Jon –" he said softly, then paused.

Jon nodded, encouraging him on.

"I just – well – If you're not Father's son, then who are you?"

 _If I'm not Father's son, then who am I. Gods_. Jon's exasperation was almost audible. Trust Robb to bring up the last thing Jon had any intention to talk about. The very thing, in fact, he was trying to avoid to the best of his ability for the last couple of days. Still, he supposed they did have to talk this through.  _And at least I got him on his knees._

"I don't know," he said.

"I was thinking about that. A lot. Your parents must have been highborn. That's the only explanation."

"I suppose so," Jon allowed.

"Father had to hide you because you must be somewhere in line to the throne. A threat to the Baratheons. Mayhaps he was doing the King a favour, do you think? Disposing of the threat. Mayhaps he was supposed to get rid of you, and just couldn't go through with it, so he had you brought to Winterfell."

"We cannot know all that," Jon said and his fingers started digging into the ground. "All we've heard was the few odd words."  _Not to mention the state we were in when we've heard them._

"No, no," Robb shook his head. "I'm sure of that. I have never believed that Father broke his vows. He is the most honourable man I know. He would never have betrayed my lady mother like that."

 _And that is all I am, a betrayal to your lady mother._  "It was a time of war. War changes men."

"If I were honour-bound to a lady," Robb insisted, "I'd keep my vow, war or not."

Jon shrugged. The thought of Robb being honour-bound to a lady was not one he wished to dwell on at the moment.

"You know what else I've been thinking?" Robb continued.

"You've surely done a lot of thinking."

Robb lowered his gaze to the ground, where Jon's fingers were already half-buried. It was icy cold even through his gloves. It was about the only thing which stopped him from throwing his brother to the ground, pulling on his hair until he yelped and sucking on the pale, pulsing skin of his neck.

"Why were they talking about that?" Robb asked. "I mean, how long has it been? Fifteen years? Whatever happened to make Father and Maester Luwin talk about something which is obviously a well-kept and dangerous secret?"

_Well, you got me, Stark. Good question._

"Something happened," Jon said.

"Aye," Robb nodded. "Something has happened, or changed. A letter, mayhaps. Or… a visit? We have many visitors just now. If we find out what has happened –"

"Then we can possibly find a clue, yes."  _But do I even want to find a clue?_ Right now, at least he knew who he was. It wasn't much, but he had a home and a family, and even though Lady Stark obviously didn't care for him, he was still accepted in Winterfell. And he had Robb. In which ways he had him it remained to be seen, but he  _had_  him. What if that secret,  _a well-kept and dangerous secret_ , would also mean losing what little he had? Perhaps it was better not to know.

"I will check Father's letters," Robb said excitedly. "I will see which ravens have arrived lately. And I can also find out with which guests Father has held meetings. We'll find something, I am sure."

 _Still a child_. But let him do that. He would probably not find anything, or otherwise he would get himself thrashed by their lord father or the Maester for being a meddlesome brat.  _No harm in that, as long as I am not implicated._

"As you say," he nodded. "See what you can find."

The leaves rustled over their heads. Only faint traces of light were filtering through the treetops. They didn't have much time left. His absence would not be noted, but Robb would surely be missed at the high table. Still, neither of them moved.

When Robb finally spoke, his voice was uneven. "It's a dangerous game we're playing."

And he surely didn't mean checking Father's letters.

"Aye," Jon said, his fingers curling.

"If we're caught –"

"We lose everything."

Robb gnawed hard on his lower lip. His hands on the ground were shaking.

"I want more," he said.

"You will have more," Jon promised.

"When?"

"Don't go hunting," said Jon. "Go to the prayer instead."

Robb's eyes widened. A drop of blood was trickling down his lip. "But – In the sept?"

"You're a Stark of the North. The blood of the First Men flows in your veins," Jon said quietly and wiped his brother's lip with his thumb. Then he rose to leave. "Those are not your gods."


	3. Les 400 Coups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No, my lord. I am going to the sept to get fucked by my half-brother, the bastard of Winterfell. But don't worry; I will still be able to bed your daughter if push comes to shove._  
>  "Yes, my lord," Robb said.
> 
> Chapter 3, in which Robb does not go to a hunt (but he can still bed Lord Karstark's daughter, believe him.)

His lady mother was displeased.

She didn't say as much, of course. Quite like he had yet to tell anyone he wasn't planning to join the hunt.  _This time I'm leaving myself an escape route_ , Robb thought numbly. The chamber maid had already brought him a bowl of warm water to wash the sleep from his eyes, along with his riding clothes, freshly starched and folded into a neat pile. And there he was, lacing his breeches and pondering whether he should ask for a change of clothing, when Lady Catelyn entered the room.

"Mother," he turned to her. He was surprised to see her in his bedchamber, but it was better not to show it. Why was she here, and why didn't she wait to see him in the Great Hall? He fingered the hem of his boiled leather tunic, distractedly wondering if it was not too tight and whether it might hamper Jon from doing whatever sick, twisted thing he planned on doing to him.

She smiled at him. "You look very handsome," she said.

She did as well, Robb thought, in her long silken gown of blue, red and silver. And he expected he did look neater than usual, with his hair slicked back and his face closely shaven.  _And you should not like it, Mother; you should not like it at all. Don't smile at me. Stop me instead. Stop me, gods._

He smiled back. "What is it, Mother?"

"Lord Karstark has made an offer to your father," she said. Robb didn't have to ask what kind of offer.

"And Father?"

His lady mother hesitated. "If he could, he would have married all of you to Northerners. But as for you… We hope for a more strategic union."

A nobler house, she meant; a Baratheon or a Tyrell. Robb could scarcely recall Lord Karstark's daughter or how old she was. Mayhaps she was still a babe. That would be good. It would have to happen eventually, he knew, and did it really matter, one lady wife or another. He wondered if Jon would be angry with him.

"You've grown so much," his lady mother said, and she placed her hands on his shoulders. Robb stiffened. It seemed even the lightest touch was too much for him at this point. He raised his eyes to look at her, and when their gazes locked he knew it was his chance to put a stop to all this madness. His lord father, had he known any of this, would have sent him to take the black without a second thought.  _Mother, though…_   _she'd help me. She'd protect me from my sick desires. I just need to confide in her. She may hate me for it, but she will help me._

He choked on all of his unsaid words. "I'm sorry, Mother."

"Whatever for, Robb?" Her voice was gentle, but to Robb's dismay not very surprised.

"I –"  _am going to submit, Mother. I will let Jon have his way with me. Whatever he wants. I will do it. Oh gods I will_. "Mayhaps I am not the son you've wanted," he said quietly.

"You are everything I've ever wanted," his lady mother said, stressing each word. "And more."

He remained silent. She didn't know about Jon's fingers inside his breeches, she didn't know how Jon's breath against his ear had made him so hard he was ready to spend himself right there and then, she didn't know all the sick, twisted things he'd conjured up in his mind during that long night: on his back, on all fours, on his knees, and Jon, and Jon.  _Don't tell me you want me, Mother. You do not want this. I am not your son. I am a sick, twisted thing. Save me_.

"You are everything to me," she said. "And your brothers and sisters adore you and look up to you."  _And my half-brother too_ , Robb thought.  _He looked up to me while he sucked my cock_. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, unable to turn away from his lady mother's touch. He wondered what Jon planned to do to him. Would he touch him beneath his smallclothes, or would he use his mouth again? Or perhaps, he would do… other things. Robb could not bear to think of it. On his back, on all fours, on his stomach.  _Gods_.

"And you have done so well during this visit, Robb," she kept on, squeezing his shoulders gently. "You have been so responsible, and I am proud of you."

His breath was shallow and he wondered whether he was going to cry, and if he cried, would his lady mother take it as a sign of weakness? She might hug him. His mother's hug – that'd be good. He desperately craved that, yet he didn't want her to think he was weak.  _Since I am, oh gods how I am_. 

"It's not me who's done all that," to his horror he heard himself say. "That was the heir to Winterfell."

" _You_  are the heir to Winterfell," his mother let go of his shoulders to grasp his hands.

"That's just – an echo of Father, that's why he likes me the least. No man likes his own shadow. And it's not who I am. I don't even know who I am." He wasn't sure what he was saying, but it was as though he was spilling everything he had pent up inside of him just so he would not scream  _Mother save me gods I will let him fuck me if he wants me to I will let Jon Snow fuck me_   _and then I will be truly and forever doomed_.

She sighed, clasping his hands close to her chest. "We all carry our burden, I understand you well. It's sometimes hard to tell when duty ends and we begin." He listened intently, breathing hard, shoulders shaking. "I too have done my duty. I have married your father when I barely even knew his face. I have given him an heir. But I am still myself. And so are you, Robb. You are the heir to Winterfell, but you're still yourself." And she kissed his brow, now moist with sweat and fear. "And whoever it is you truly are, Robb, I'm sure it is a wonderful person."

 _Mother, save me_ , he despairingly thought, but instead he clasped her hands just as hard, rested his head on her shoulder for as long as he thought he'd be allowed to.  _And if you can't save me, Mother, please still love me despite what I truly am_.

 

Jon was not present at the morning table, which was just as well, Robb supposed. After facing the shame of not telling his lady mother the truth, he could not face Jon and the shame of  _almost_  telling her the truth. He broke his fast with too few bites of bacon and oat porridge, and probably more cups of Dornish red than advisable. As he turned to leave the Great Hall, Lord Karstark caught up to him and clapped his back so hard he almost knocked the breath out of him.

"Getting ready for the hunt, my boy?" Lord Karstark roared.

 _No, my lord. I am going to the sept to get fucked by my half-brother, the bastard of Winterfell. But don't worry; I will still be able to bed your daughter if push comes to shove_. "Yes, my lord," Robb said.

He'd decided against letting them know he would not be joining the hunt. It would draw too much attention. They would ask why, and telling the entire hunting party he had a sudden fit of piousness did not strike him as a good idea. No, he was going to excuse himself and find somewhere to disappear to until they had all left.  _And I will worry about their questions later. I will worry about everything later._

Only by the time he managed to excuse himself from Lord Karstark, Theon had sneaked up behind him.

"Good morning, Robb," he said and followed him out of the doors to the inner yard.

"Morning, Theon." Outside was a bustle of activity; men were moving in and out through the inner gate, squires were carrying weapons, armour parts and saddles, and Arya was doing her best to get under their feet.

"You took your sweet time, now go and saddle your horse already," Theon smiled broadly. "We'll ride to Winter Town while the rest of them are busy."

"Winter Town?" Robb stammered as they crossed the inner yard.  _Well, I will add it to my list of things to worry about later._

"Let's face it, lad. With the Karstarks here, this hunt is doomed for us."

"I don't know what you can possibly mean," Robb said indignantly.

"Come on! Your father always lets them take the first shot."

"He does not."

"You just keep telling yourself that," Theon shook his head. "I for one am not going to play the squire in Lord Karstark's mummer's farce. So I figured we might as well have some fun. Drinks, some wenches, aye?"

Robb stopped near the gate and turned to look at Theon. He was aware that his mouth had pressed into a thin, disapproving line, but he could not help himself.

"Are you joining my lord father's hunt to whore, Theon?"

"Gods, you Starks are a truly miserable lot," Theon sighed, apparently exasperated, and clapped Robb on his shoulder. "No, Robb, my lad. I take it back. No whoring. Just a drink in Winter Town. You and me. No Karstarks. Sounds decent enough for you?"

"Aye, decent enough," Robb nodded, "even for a miserable Stark. I just – I have this thing I need to get for my lord father first."

"What? The joy of living?"

And for a moment he knew it could have been so easy. All he had to do was join Theon. He'd go saddle his horse. They would follow the hunting party for a while, let themselves slowly fall behind, and then turn around and ride for Winter Town. Theon was always good company, bawdy and vulgar, and he made Robb smile. They would share wine at the Smoking Log and would nearly wet their breeches laughing, and after a while Theon would probably go and meet those girls of his anyway, whores or wenches as they were, but Robb would be too drunk to care. And afterwards they would ride back to find the hunting party, completely in their cups and singing loudly, and of course everybody would know what they'd done, but ( _save for my lord father, probably, since he is the most miserable of us miserable lot_ ) they'd laugh it off and it would be so warm and happy and good and  _oh gods why can't I just do it_.

"I'll tell you if I find any in Winterfell," Robb said.

"Fat chance at that," grumbled Theon. "Don't be long or we'll leave without you." With that he turned to go, and Robb watched as his last escape route disappeared through the gate to the outer yard.

 

Old Nan said the Great Sept of Baelor was almost as big as Winterfell itself, with seven crystal spires and bells which rang throughout King's Landing to announce the birth of a king. Robb hoped to see it one day, but until such time his idea of the Faith was northern and thus humbler. The one single bell which rang to announce his own birth was hanging at the top of the one single stone tower of the sept of Winterfell, which was just large enough to house the Mallister and Manderly households, along with the few Starks who remained in the castle after the hunting party had left.

The sept consisted of one main prayer hall and a gallery. At the back of the main hall stood a raised pulpit on top of which Septon Chayle bored them to tears whenever he was given the chance. Near the entry doors a circular set of stone stairs rose up to the gallery, where the altars of the Seven-faced God stared sternly down at the prayers in the main hall. A few wooden prayer stalls were built into the back of the gallery, mainly for noble ladies who preferred to privately watch the prayers through the shutters of the stalls. They were rarely used. Robb supposed that unlike the godswood, the main point of praying in the sept was  _to be seen_.

He stopped at the door, unsure how to proceed. Through the throng of septgoers he could see his family in the front row, his lady mother with Septa Mordane to her right, and his little brothers and sisters to her left, sorted by age and in their best gowns. Sansa was wearing a particularly lovely dress of green and cloth-of-gold, but Arya's gown already had a rather large splash of mud on it. Bran had just stepped on Rickon's foot, and the babe howled in anger. Jon was not there.  _And what a fool was I to expect that. Of course he would not be with them_. Robb could not imagine his lady mother's horrified look should Jon have stepped into the sept and stood next to her in front of all the Mallisters of the Riverlands.

He realised his hands were trembling by his side, and decided anything would be better than standing by the door like a headless hen. He stepped into the main hall, elbowing his way through maids and servants, then lower knights and highborn ladies, until he managed to squeeze himself between Sansa and his lady mother.

"Robb."

He assumed it would be incomprehension in her eyes, but it looked more like disappointment. Sansa was also looking at him, her brow furrowed. He felt his stomach turn in fear, but he swallowed and kept his face rigid.  _Add another one to the list._

"You haven't gone to the hunt," his lady mother said matter-of-factly.

He didn't know what answer she expected, so he nodded curtly. Then he thought of something which wasn't a complete lie, for once. "I need to be here, Mother."

She studied him for a moment longer. "As you will," she finally said, and turned her face to the pulpit. Robb had to bite on his lip harder than usual to keep his face still.  _And where is Jon?_  As if his lady mother's stinging disappointment wasn't enough. Why did she look at him like that? He thought she had understood. Perhaps she had, all too well. No, he couldn't think about that, it was too awful. And Jon, had Jon played him for a fool?  _Mayhaps he just wanted to see if I would obey. Mayhaps_ _it's another game, a kind of cruel jape_.

A ripple of whispers went through the septgoers. Septon Chayle had just climbed onto the pulpit, and he was raising his hand to ask for silence. The crowd drew closer to the platform to better hear the sermon, and Robb was finding it hard to breathe with so many men pressed close to him.  _I should leave_ , he thought.  _Mayhaps not right away if I don't want Mother to become even more suspicious, but I should leave_.

Then a hand was on his waist, and a hot breath in his ear.

"Stark."

And the bastard of Winterfell began whispering orders in the heir's ear as the crowd of believers broke into a hymn, praising the  _gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray._

 

The crowd was still singing after Jon had left, and Robb wiped his sweaty hands on his breeches, his cheeks flushed a deep red.

( _Wait until the first sermon starts, Jon ordered_.)

The first sermon was for the Father, and Robb shifted impatiently from side to side. He thought of his own father, now riding in search of wild stags with Lord Karstark. Had he noted the absence of his eldest son? Undoubtedly, but Robb did not think he was all too concerned with it. His lord father was always kind to him, kind – and distant. Perhaps it was because he had not seen Robb as a babe as he had seen his other children, perhaps because he did not want to treat Robb better than he treated Jon, perhaps because as the firstborn and heir, Robb's life symbolised in a way Lord Eddard's death.  _No man likes his own echo._

( _Leave and walk up to the gallery, Jon ordered_.)

He stole a glance at his mother, then at his sister. Lady Catelyn appeared to be engrossed in the sermon, but Sansa was looking at one of the Mallisters, a fair haired, lanky youth about Theon's age. Robb seized the chance and quickly backed away, pushing through the crowd until he found his way to the door and turned right to climb the stairs.

( _Light candles in the altars if anyone is looking, Jon ordered_.)

As he climbed the stairs, he looked over the railing back to the main hall. To his horror, his lady mother's bright blue eyes locked on his immediately, her face a stony mask. He felt himself stumbling forward, his heart throbbing madly inside of his chest. He found the first altar and shakily knelt in front of it to light a candle for the Father.

( _Enter the second prayer stall to your right, Jon ordered_.)

Robb rose up on his feet. Forcing himself not to look back, he staggered forward over the Crone, Stranger and Smith. When he passed the Mother, his knees gave and he dropped in front of the statue, lit another candle and for all it was worth, mumbled his fervent apology and swore his love to his lady mother.

The last few steps were pure torture. His legs were barely obeying him; his mind was clouded by wine and fear. He pushed the stall door open, and there it was.  _There_. Warmth engulfed him. His half-brother's arms wrapped around his waist, his soft lips touched his brow.

"Here you are, Stark," Jon breathed onto him. He pulled him closer and Robb was lost in his scent, of wild dark curls and damp red earth and autumn leaves.

"My mother," Robb mumbled. "She saw me go up, she saw me –"

Jon's fingers were on his cheeks, caressing him gently. "Don't worry," he said. "It's okay now." He pressed his mouth to Robb's for a rough kiss, sucked on his lower lip until Robb slackened in his arms, as if to assert that now they were both here and nothing outside the stall had any meaning anymore. Then he pulled back, and they watched each other silently, lips slightly parted, their bodies tangled close together.

"Why here?" asked Robb. "We could've gone to my bedchamber."

"We could have," Jon agreed, "but we won't. Undo your breeches, Stark."

Robb stilled momentarily. Then he reached down under his tunic and released the laces of his breeches. He could feel how hard he was under the soft fabric of his smallclothes and that thought was enough to make him shiver.

"Good," Jon said. "Now lean against the window."

 _Will it be like that, then?_ Would Jon wank him off in the prayer stall, while Septon Chayle praised the divine justice of the Father? Robb stumbled forward and pressed his palms to the shutters of the small window, his back to Jon. His half-brother settled to his left, against the wooden wall of the small stall. His hand moved to Robb's back, slowly tracing his spine through the leather tunic.

"Open the shutters," Jon said, his voice hoarse.

"They'd see us," Robb whispered, his cheeks flushed.

"Only your face."

Robb breathed hard. "You like that, Snow? When they see me?"

"Mm," Jon muttered noncommittally. His fingers circled the small of Robb's back, slowly slipping under the hem of his tunic. "And you'd like to see if anyone comes up here."

 _So I'm a sentry, to make sure nobody interrupts all the sick, twisted things Jon will soon, soon enough, do to me_. He shut his eyes, bracing himself, and then with one swift motion opened the window. He could see the entire main hall from up here, the bald spot on the top of Septon Chayle's head, the throng of worshippers huddled near the platform, and the auburn hair of his lady mother and his younger siblings ( _and Arya, and Arya_ ).

"Breeches down, Stark," Jon ordered. "And smallclothes too."

Robb gnawed on his lip but obeyed at once.  _I've come too far to play coy_ , he thought with a shudder, realising that for all his pretence, his escape routes had melted like a summer snow, and that for as long as they were here in the prayer stall, in the sept of Winterfell ( _and what a sacrilege, gods_ ), he'd do anything that Jon wanted, exactly as Jon wanted it, and gods damn them both.

His already unlaced breeches fell easily between his knees as he pulled down on his smallclothes. "Want me to tell you what they're doing?" Robb whispered. "Like before? You'd like that, Snow?"

"Tell me," Jon said in a low growl. His right hand cupped Robb's backside, squeezing so hard that Robb had to press his face to the window sill. Jon's other hand moved around his hips slowly, trailing over the soft auburn wisps of hair on his lower stomach. Robb silenced a gasp with the back of his hand; he tried to focus on the scene in front of him, rather than the feeling of Jon's fingers on his belly, moving down to his thigh, fluttering so gently over his skin.

"It's over." His voice sounded almost like a cough. "The sermon for the Father. It's –" Jon's fingers suddenly wrapped around his cock and Robb leant his left cheek closer to the window to hide his quivering lips, to stifle his moan. "It's – the Smith. Aye." Jon's palm rubbed over the length of his erection, moving up and down in a maddeningly slow pace. "He tells them, uh, the strength of our work, the virtue in –  _gods_ – even in our daily work there's virtue."

"Is there?" Jon muttered. He released his hold of his cock, but before Robb could protest, he licked his palm, his grey eyes almost black in the dim light of the stall, and then he curled his fingers again around him, wet and warm, and Robb felt himself throb against his touch. He tried to move his hips forward into that ring of Jon's fingers, but Jon stopped him with a stern right hand on his behind. "Is there?" he repeated.

"Gods, don't know," Robb whimpered. "Aye, he says there is. The strength to carry out our everyday, banal duties is sometimes nobler than the strength of a warrior in battle. That is the, _oh_   _fuck_ –" Jon made a sudden swift move to the base of his cock and Robb tilted his head to the other side of the window, panting hard. "That is the lesson of the Smith."

He could see Jon nodding to his left, and then it was just that movement of his half-brother's hand, swifter and rougher, as the septon's voice droned monotonously on. Robb felt his head bob slightly along with Jon's hand, and a sickly warmth rose in his chest.  _Am I going to spend? So soon?_  He tried to focus on something else. "Sansa, she's – _gods_ –"

"What about her?" Jon asked and slowed his rhythm.

"She doesn't listen to the sermon."

"Can't blame her."

Robb coughed out something that could have passed as a snicker if it hadn't sounded so lost and desperate. "No, she's looking at the Mallister heir. She likes him."

"Does she?" Jon ran his finger at the crack of Robb's backside, rubbing the skin slowly under the tunic ( _it's not too tight, then_ ) while his other hand steadily stroked Robb's erection. Sansa had never warmed to Jon, never truly considered him her own blood, Robb knew. And Jon was pretty much indifferent to her, Robb also knew that, but he couldn't stop himself from talking, because if he didn't talk, he'd have to think of Jon's finger going down there, where it shouldn't be going, where it was sick and twisted _–_

"But he's much older than her," Robb groaned. "She's just a child to him, really. I don't think he even notices her."

"You're a fool, Stark," Jon said and his finger was now on between his ass cheeks, digging slowly on his entrance. "She's a maiden of a noble family. Of course he notices her."

Jon was right, naturally. Sansa was a good match. The Mallisters mayhaps even asked for a union between her and Ser Patrek. Well, that ought to make her happy.  _Should I be happy too if Father decides I must marry a Karstark? Or a Tyrell? Or a Martell?_  It was his duty; it was not a question of happiness anyway. And Jon rubbed the tight entrance with his finger, pushing it forward, threatening to insert it, backing out again.

Robb swallowed. "Aye, true. Do you think Father is going to get them betrothed?"

"I don't care about that," Jon hissed and slipped the tip of his finger inside Robb. "Does it hurt?"

Robb shook his head slightly. It did hurt, a little, but he could take it. "The Smith, that's over – _fuck, Snow_." Jon's finger moved deeper inside and _it did hurt_. Robb bit his lip. "It's the, uh. The Maiden."

"The Maiden," Jon growled. "The Maiden, is it?"

All of a sudden he drew his hands away from Robb, both from his ass and his cock, and Robb had to whimper as he was left leaning against the open window, breaches and smallclothes down between his knees, his legs spread and his erection pulsing painfully. "Snow," he breathed. "Please –"

And it was at this moment, when Robb was just about to start begging his half-brother to put his hands back, to continue to wank him off, to take care of him  _(please please do your sick things to me, Jon_ ), that Lady Catelyn raised her head and looked straight at him. Robb looked back, panic-stricken, unable neither to make a move nor to break the eye contact with his lady mother. He heard the sound of a bottle uncorking to his left, as Septon Chayle started preaching the importance of innocence and the virtues of the Maiden.

"She's looking at me," he wailed in a small, frightened voice. "Gods, she can see me."

"It's okay," Jon said. "Listen to me. She can only see your face. Don't talk, just pretend to pray. You'll be fine." And to add to his horror, Robb realised that his half-brother was enjoying this.  _He likes it when he knows my lady mother can see me as he does all those sick things to me_. G _ods, he likes it._

He stilled himself and looked back at his mother. Her face was unreadable, but the way she was staring,  _gods_. "Do you know what I'm doing, Stark?" Jon said quietly. "Don't answer. I have a bottle of juniper oil. I took it from the Maester's Turret. It's supposed to help with cuts and bruises and such. Also has a really nice scent. Can you smell it, Stark?" Robb could. "Do you know what I'm going to do with it?" Robb did, he knew all about these things, gods he did. He nodded faintly and closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of his lady mother as Septon Chayle spoke of chastity, and virtue, and –

Jon's fingers were again on his backside, and now he did not waste any time caressing or squeezing. His index finger found Robb's entrance immediately, and this time it was slick and oiled and it entered easily inside. Robb took a sharp breath, but he managed to stay quiet.

"Does it hurt?" Jon asked as his finger moved further inside.

Robb didn't answer, couldn't answer, he didn't trust himself to speak.  _It hurts, it's good, it's dirty and sick_ _._  Jon must have taken his silence for acquiescence, since his middle finger started nudging its way inside. Robb leant his head to the side, opened his eyes and concentrated on inhaling slowly, measuredly, as he watched his lady mother watching him, as Jon stretched him loose _down there_ , inserting two fingers inside him, pumping them gradually deeper.  _In and out_ , Robb told himself,  _breathe_. And then a third finger. Robb drew blood from his lips; he did not make a sound. Somewhere, maybe in Lys or Yunkai, this was probably considered an accomplishment.

Lady Catelyn looked back at the stairs, and for one horrible moment Robb thought she would leave the sermon to go and fetch her firstborn, who was obviously in some kind of emotional distress. Then she seemed to sigh to herself, probably realising she could not very well leave the prayer without causing a scene. She turned, alternating between listening to the last praises Septon Chayle had for the virtuous Maiden, and looking at her defiled son.

Jon leant towards him, his messy dark locks damp on his brow and his breath ragged. His fingers made slow, circular movements inside of Robb as he whispered to him, voice all of a sudden soft and coaxing, as if talking to a small child: "Doing fine, Robb? Can you take more?"

Robb had too many answers for that, more than he would ever care to admit, but he just moved his head down a little, then up, and whispered: "Yes."

Jon took his fingers out slowly. Septon Chayle raised his arms, caught in the fervour of the ceremony, and with a renewed energy started glorifying the mercy and compassion of the Mother, always there to smile upon us, always there to forgive our sins. Robb's own mother looked at him, her blue eyes frozen.  _Will you forgive my sins, Mother?_

"The Mother," Jon hissed, his voice hard again. "Close the shutters, Stark. You don't want your lady mother to see you cry."

Robb's hand moved on its own, pushing the shutter window down. It was a relief not to see her anymore. It was horror not to know whether she was coming. Then he lost all thought as Jon moved behind him and he could feel his half-brother's erection against his backside.

"Just look at you," Jon mumbled as he placed his hands on Robb's ass, roughly spreading it apart. "The little lordling of Winterfell –" He rubbed his cock against his skin, then guided it to his entrance. Robb curled his fingers around the shutters, ordering himself to relax.  _I will do whatever he wants, however he wants it, I am going to submit_ , the thoughts were running hazily in his mind,  _I will let him fuck me if he wants me to I will let Jon Snow fuck me_  –

"The little lordling with his breeches down like a Winter Town whore," Jon muttered, and when he entered inside of him it was still a shock. Robb had tried to prepare himself, to breathe steadily, but apparently nothing could have prepared him for that, for the feeling of being completely invaded, completely torn apart. He pressed his fist to his mouth and screamed against it, bit on his knuckles until he felt blood, chewed on his lower lip, cried again into his torn flesh.

And Jon  _was_  gentle, he was, for all his harsh words he was gentle, entering the head of his cock slowly, then stopping to let Robb adjust. He waited until Robb had calmed around him before pushing forward, and as he found his position his hands moved to wrap around Robb's cock and brush over its length, dulling the pain, helping Robb find his bearings again.

"Just look at you, I wish your lady mother could see you," Jon growled in his ear, edging closer inside him. "What would she say, Stark? What would she say?"

Robb could not think of it.  _She'd probably not say anything. She'd scream. She'd stand frozen with disgust and disappointment_. And it was sick and dirty and a sacrilege, a total sacrilege. And he moved his hips to rub into Jon's hand as Jon thrust entirely into him, his lips on him, licking under his curls, sucking on the pale skin of his neck.

"I wish they could all see you," Jon said. He pulled back a little, then entered his cock again all the way in. Robb stifled a cry as Septon Chayle's vibrating voice lectured about the nurturing force of the Mother, she guards us all… and it was sacrilege, it was. Jon had told him those were not his gods. He was right, as he usually was. They were not his gods, his gods were in the trees and in the leaves, but those were Lady Catelyn's gods.  _He is making love to me as much as he is waging war on my lady mother_.

"The little wolf of Stark." Jon's breath was so hot in his ear. "Taken from behind like a bitch in heat." Jon's hand, slick with juniper oil, was rubbing him, and Jon's cock was thrusting inside him so fast now, so harsh, and Jon's mouth sucked on his ears, teeth pulling on his lobes, and it was too much for Robb to endure. It was a pain so intense he felt the tears streaming down his cheeks and falling on his tunic, and it was a pleasure so overwhelming he had to lean his head against the window as Jon panted hard into him.

"Can't take it, Stark?" Jon groaned. "Is it too much for you?"

He heard himself sob. "Yes – no – _gods_ , what are you doing to me, Jon Snow?"

"Fucking you, Robb Stark, fucking you hard," Jon replied and pushed harshly all the way inside him. "The bastard finally fucks the little heir."

And that was all it took. With a sense of utter humiliation Robb cried out into his fist and spilled his seed on Jon's fingers, body trembling, limbs quivering, and tears flooding his eyes. Jon thrust into him, once, twice, then bit hard on his neck, yanked his head back and spent himself inside of Robb with a heavy moan.

From an entirely different world, Septon Chayle praised the courage and valour of the Warrior. They stood and listened, panting and twined close together, Robb's head resting on the shutters, Jon slumped against his shoulder. The warrior carried the sword of victory, representing strength in battle, the ability to look your adversary in the eye without flinching. Jon pulled out gently and turned Robb around, letting him collapse into the safety of his arms. He pressed his mouth softly to his half-brother's swollen lips, kissed the blood from his skin and the tears from his eyes.

"You did so well, Robb," he hummed softly, over and over again. "So well. So proud of you, Robb, so proud."

 

When Robb stepped back down to the main hall, leaving Jon behind him in the stall, the sermon for the Crone was almost finished. Last words were uttered about the wisdom gained through years of experience.  _If that's true, Septon Chayle must be an exception_. Robb didn't trust his wobbly legs; he seemed to be throbbing everywhere, but especially  _there_. He slowly walked down the stairs, wondering if he was bleeding, wondering if it was seed spilling out of him, wondering if it showed.

He took his place between Sansa and his lady mother as the septon started the last sermon for the Stranger. Sansa looked at him oddly; his lady mother did not look at him at all. He stared at the pulpit, head completely devoid of thoughts.  _It's been too much._

Then the prayer was over and it was time to leave, and Robb thought of the Great Hall and Dornish red and Arbor gold and afterwards to sleep, forever sleep. Arya and his little brothers ran quickly towards the door, unable to contain themselves any longer, and he followed his sister and mother as slowly as he could.

But Lady Catelyn did not go through the door. She walked up the stairs.

"Mother?" Robb said in a little voice, feeling as if he was drowning.

"A moment. I shall light the candles," she answered, and swiftly climbed the staircase, moving past the altars and lighting a candle at each of them almost offhandedly.  _Because she doesn't care about that_ , Robb thought hysterically.  _She doesn't care about that at all. She knows, oh gods help me, she knows._

For a moment he thought about running after her, about stopping her, even about confessing, because it was better if she heard it from his own lips. Then he thought about denying it all, about blaming Jon, about throwing himself from the library tower – all those options ran through his head as he looked at his lady mother opening the door to the second stall from the left where only a while ago Jon was over him, fucking him hard.

She stood in the entryway, and then turned, her expression seemingly confused. She walked down the stairs, looked hard at him, and left. Robb and Sansa followed her, and without a word he caught his sister's hand in his own, because he had to hold on to somebody or he would surely faint. Sansa stared at him, surprised, but then she laced her fingers through his, and smiled. He smiled back, and loved her so.

Jon caught up to them as they crossed the inner courtyard. Sansa gently released her hand and followed Lady Catelyn, and the half-brothers fell slowly behind the rest of the household.

"She didn't see you," Robb said.

"No," Jon smiled. "I told you not to worry."

"But how?"

Jon seemed strangely proud of himself. "The second stall from the left, there's a hidden compartment in it. They keep candles and such over there."

Robb breathed hard. "And my lady mother, she doesn't know?"

"There are many, many things," Jon said with a swagger, "that your lady mother doesn't know."


	4. La Grande Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb was made out of a perfect mould, cast in the shape of Lord Stark and all the Lord Starks who came before him. Try to bend him over ( _and Jon had_ ), and he would snap right back to his roots.
> 
> Chapter 4, in which Jon expects a backlash, and Arya thinks it's just a big adventure (she couldn't be more wrong.)

If Robb was at all broken, it did not show.

Jon edged closer to his brother, watching the last rays of the day flooding the solar and casting shadows on the auburn stubbles of his beard. Robb had adjusted quickly. He was no longer blushing, nor was he gnawing nervously on his lips. He had not even let out one of his sweet whimpers when Jon had started stroking him steadily under his breeches. He had just slumped back in his seat. His right hand was still clutching the quill with which he had been diligently copying their lord father's letters.

"Snow," Robb said. His voice was level.

"Mm," Jon muttered back. His thumb was rubbing the slit of Robb's cock.

In the first few days after _the sept_ , Jon had been dreading the backlash. He had half expected Robb to break down and tell Lady Stark everything. He had been afraid he'd gone too far. Those terrible things he had said to Robb, well, he _had_ meant to say them, and he _had_ said them many times over in his mind. _The fucking little lordling of Winterfell, I will mount you like a little bitch, I will bend you over and fuck you, and when you are Lord I will still bend you over and make you scream my name_. But when those words were said out loud, they took on an altogether uglier quality. It was only made worse by the fact Robb was in such obvious agony.

 _Maybe I'm a fool to worry so much about him_ , Jon thought as his fingers gripped harder. If anything, Robb seemed cooler than usual, wearing his _little lordling_ mask tighter on his face, handing orders to the household servants, bossing Greyjoy around, riding with their lord father around the castle grounds. Robb was made out of a perfect mould, cast in the shape of Lord Stark and all the Lord Starks who came before him. Try to bend him over ( _and Jon had_ ), and he would snap right back to his roots.

"Snow, that's enough."

"Not nearly enough," Jon said.

Robb was having none of this. "Too close to dinner. I won't have time to change."

When Jon made no move to stop, Robb let go of his quill, seized him by the wrist and yanked his brother's hand out of his breeches. "Enough, I said."

 _Enough, is it? Have you had enough, sweet Robb?_ He looked unbroken, it was true. His face was rigid, his look determined. In times like this, he looked a lot like his lady mother: cold, haughty, distant. But Jon knew him better than that. He had seen him: his cheek pressed to a prayer stall window, tearing his own flesh out with his teeth, spasms rocking his body. Whatever Robb was hiding under that Tully mask, Jon wanted to shatter it and lap it out of him.

"Fine," he said. "Then you do me. _I_ can sup in the kitchens."

Robb's reaction was swift and gratifying. He flushed and gaped at Jon. "Me?" he stammered.

 _Oh, sweet Robb_. _Blushing like a maiden when we both know better_. "What's the matter, Stark? Think you're too good for it?"

Robb seemed to be struggling with himself. His face stilled as it sometimes did when he was deep in thought. "No," he finally said. "I do not think so. I can do it."

"Words are wind," Jon told him.

Tentatively, Robb placed his left hand on Jon's crotch, over his breeches, his blue eyes wide and hesitant. His cheeks were now burning in a colour to match his hair. He slowly moved his fingers over the linen of Jon's breeches.

"Might work better if you actually touch it," Jon said.

"I _know_ that," Robb replied hotly, and Jon realised with a slight jolt of excitement that his brother had no idea what to do. _And I am so sure of myself all the time. I know how to touch him. Mayhaps it is true that bastards are creatures of lust. And betrayal._

Robb unlaced the ties of his breeches and inserted his fingers under Jon's underpants. His hand wrapped around Jon's cock, and Jon found himself twitching under the light, uncertain touch. _Just like that_ , he thought, but said nothing. He wanted Robb to work it out for himself. His brother gave him a rub, looked at Jon contemplatively, then drew his hand out of his breeches, spat on it heartily, and returned his wet hand under the linen to start stroking him timidly.

 _Nice one_ , Jon thought.

The movement of his brother's hand let out lewd slurping sounds. Robb was watching him, his face close enough for Jon to feel his warm breath, his eyes bright, his long lashes casting shadows over his pale flushed skin. This mere sight was enough to make Jon's head spin and his cock pulse. He was close, but did not want to spend himself yet. He wanted to savour the tremor of Robb's lips, the blue of his eyes, the dark reddish curls glowing under the dusky skies.

"Spittle dries too quickly," Robb muttered suddenly, his hand now finding a sure pace on his brother's cock. "Could use your juniper oil."

 _I bet you could_. Again the image of Robb's parted mouth against the shutters and his subdued yelps of pain flashed into Jon's mind. He moved his hand from his thigh and tousled Robb's curls, caressing him slowly, tucking the locks behind his ear.

"Do you know what it takes to make a bottle of that oil?" asked Jon. "I hadn't. Wouldn't have taken it if I had. Maester Luwin was quite furious, I heard." Robb's hand moved faster, his fingers applying more pressure; his lips were quivering as he looked at Jon. "A whole village needs to collect fresh juniper leaves, twenty sacks per man each day for a fortnight, just to extract enough pure oil to fill a small bottle."

"Must be expensive," Robb mumbled. His fingers curled over the head of Jon's cock as his palm rubbed the shaft. _He's imitating what I do to him, motion after motion_ , Jon thought, _but it's good. Fuck, it's good_.

"It is," Jon agreed."I shouldn't have called you a Winter Town whore," he fixed his eyes on Robb. "Fucking you has cost Winterfell at least two dragons. You could buy a bed slave in Lys with that."

Robb's mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

Jon shot a glance to the entryway. A large bookcase stood between the writing desk and the door to the solar. He decided that they would have sufficient warning. _And it is worth to risk it_. His fingers moved from Robb's hair to cup his nape, and he slowly rubbed his cheek on Robb's, letting their curls tangle together. Robb's free hand moved towards him over the oaken desk, and their fingers entwined. He raised their interwoven hands to his lips, kissed Robb's fingers one by one, gently sucking on the light skin. As he felt Robb melting slowly into his touch, the hand inside his breeches deliberate and assured, he pulled him closer and kissed him deeply, eyes closed. Robb slackened against him, his body limp and soft, warm lips moaning into him.

 _Yes, that's how I like you. That's how I need you to be_ , Jon thought as their tongues met, their fingers laced together, Robb stroking him under the table. _I want you pliant, malleable, and mine. Completely mine._ And with a sudden gush of emotions he spent his seed into his brother's hand.

Robb's lips were trailing over his cheek. "Did I do well?" he asked sheepishly.

"Is your hand sticky, Stark?" Jon grumbled. "Then you probably did well."

Robb looked almost offended, but then he stilled, slowly wiped the seed off his hand on Jon's breeches, and his lips curled up in a smile. A little smile which shone more hauntingly than the sunset rays and the pale moon rising through the window.

 _That face, that smile_ , Jon thought, mesmerised. This was what a true Lord looked like. Men would flock to his banners. Men would ride out to war with him. Men would die for him. _I would die for him_. And he drew his brother to him and kissed that smile, over and over again.

The room was almost dark when Robb finally broke the spell. "I've collected some letters," he said. His voice was hoarse; his lips were cracked and swollen with kisses and bites. "Maybe there's something there."

 _This again. Why doesn't he ever have enough of this, instead? Let it go, Stark. I am my father's son. I am some woman's son. That's all there is to it_. They had not talked about it much since _the sept_ , but the thought seemed to linger almost compulsively in Robb's mind. Whether it was due to any real curiosity or whether Robb was desperately trying to find a trapdoor out of his – well, _incestuous_ – situation, he seemed consumed by this quest he had undertaken. Robb had been constantly looking for letters, documents or any kind of manuscript which could provide a clue. He had taken to reading them out loud to Jon each chance he had, challenging Jon to find a hidden meaning he might have missed.

He was now scrutinising a raven's letter under the dim candle light. "A feast in King's Landing to celebrate Princess Myrcella's nameday," he read out loud. "Why are they even sending this? It's not like we'll ride south to _attend_."

"Where did you find these letters?" Jon asked.

"Just scattered around," Robb said. "Look at this – the Hornwoods wish Father to come and visit their hold to settle a few grievances with the Boltons, concerning their lands and borders. Well, the Boltons are a nasty lot, I hear."

"You're wasting your time. They would never leave something as important _just scattered around_."

"Could be what we're looking for doesn't seem important for someone who doesn't know about _you_ ," Robb said stubbornly. "Could be it was a small, petty thing that started them talking."

"So you say," Jon shrugged, "and yet I hear you speaking of Princess Myrcella's nameday and the Boltons."

"Even so, I should probably know more about those things," Robb said. "If I mean to rule the North one day, it is unacceptable that I would not know the names of all the Mallisters or how old Lord Karstark's daughter is."

"And why would you need to know how old she is?" Jon asked sharply.

"No reason," Robb suddenly bristled. "It's just an example."

 _Sometimes, though, he's like an unsealed letter_. "Here's a free advice for you, Stark," Jon said, his face burning. "You'd better stop chewing your fucking lips every time you lie, otherwise your bannermen will chew you to seven hells the first chance they get."

Robb shot him an enraged look, but then, almost at once, he seemed to falter. "My lady mother said Lord Karstark wishes me to marry his daughter," he said.

 _And here we go, sooner rather than later_ , Jon thought. But it was much too soon. Jon needed a firm grip on Robb first, needed to make his brother completely dependent on him. _You will be there with your noble name, sweet Robb, with your proud face and your soulful eyes, to inspire loyalty in your men like you were born to do. And I will be there, behind your back, whispering orders in your ears_. Jon did remember Alys Karstark, a wisp of a little girl with long brownish hair, a pointed strong chin and eyes like fire. This lady wife could mean the ruin of everything he had worked to achieve. Jon felt a feverish sickness build up inside of him.

"What did Father say?" he asked.

"He doesn't want me to marry a Karstark. My lady mother says I must marry into a nobler house. A more strategic union."

"Aye," Jon nodded, finding himself for once agreeing with Lady Stark. "A Karstark is a good match for Bran or Rickon, but not for the _heir_."

"I don't want any match, noble or not," Robb said miserably. "You're lucky, Jon. No one would force you to marry."

 _Yes, very lucky. Would you trade places with me, Stark?_ "Let us not worry about this now," Jon said, more to himself than to his brother. "It can be a long while yet. And right now you should probably worry more about being late for dinner."

Robb nodded, and with a sigh he released himself from his brother's hand and rose from the table, folding his stack of documents and manuscripts. His face stilled as he looked back at Jon, and his cheeks seemed to flush anew.

"I liked what you made me do," he said before leaving.

 

His stomach was growling angrily as he took his little sister by the hand. _All I wanted was to eat_ , Jon thought glumly. _Creamy leek soup, peppery mutton stew, apricot and lettuce salad, cold cuts of ham, oat pudding, lemon cakes and many a cup of ale_. He had changed his soiled breeches to a clean garment and tidied himself up, and he had almost passed through the inner courtyard on his way to the kitchens when, by an unfortunate turn of events, the heavy door of the Great Hall opened and out of it emerged Greyjoy with a sulking Arya stumbling behind him.

"Hey, Snow," Greyjoy called after him. "Back here. Take this little demon to her room."

 _I'm on my way to eat_ , Jon wanted to tell Greyjoy, _and if you've been charged with returning Arya to her bedchamber, you'd better believe that I will not do your task for you_. But then Arya gave him a pleading look, and Jon felt his shoulders sag in defeat. He could always stand up to Greyjoy, but he could never deny his little sister anything.

"Very well," he said. "Come on."

Greyjoy cracked his ugly smile and disappeared back into the hall without a word. Arya followed Jon, matching her small strides to his own. Her hair was dishevelled and her grey woollen dress was splattered with what seemed like mutton gravy.  "Good thing you showed up, Jon," she said. "I don't like being alone with _him_."

"I hear you," Jon said and messed up his sister's dark hair. "What did you do now, _little demon_?"

"Nothing," she mumbled and looked down at her feet.

"Nothing?"

"It was their fault anyway," she stated.

"Whose fault?"

"Sansa and Jeyne," she said. "They can be so cruel sometimes."

Arya then told him what had happened in many, albeit questionable, details. She had been sitting at the table, deep in her peaceful thoughts, as quiet and innocent as possible, when her older sister Sansa and her best friend Jeyne Poole had started taunting her. "Called me horse-face, a stick, they did. They said I was really a boy, not a girl," her face darkened. "They said that I don't look like a highborn girl, that they sometimes confuse me with Mikken's boys." Apparently, they had also thrown leeks and turnips on her and "I might've returned the favour, so to speak." Nobody had come to her rescue, since "Bran and Rickon are stupid babes, and Mother and Father always blame me, and stupid Robb doesn't even notice anything since he's so smitten with stupid Greyjoy" and it seemed that she would not allow Jon to eat in the kitchens anymore, since "they are not as bad when you're around. They're scared of you, Jon, because you always stick up to me! And Jeyne says you have an evil face."

"Does she now," Jon said as they climbed the winding stairs of the keep.

"Don't listen to her, I think you have a great face," Arya declared. "And she looks like a constipated duck, so she should shut her trap."

Jon chuckled. There was no denying Arya was his favourite sibling. Unlike the riot of emotions he felt each time he looked at Robb, with Arya it was just what it seemed to be, simply a big brother with his little sister. And for her age, Arya had keen eyes and even keener wits. She didn't miss much of what happened in Winterfell, and she was always happy to share the little events and gossips of the castle with him. They were both outsiders of sorts. Lady Stark had her claws deep in his other siblings: Robb was Lady Stark's firstborn, her pride and joy. Sansa was the Lady Stark's spitting image, a haughty little lady. Bran was Lady Stark's sweet boy. Rickon was her babe. Arya, much like Jon, just _was_. And Jon expected Arya would never think of telling him he was _lucky_ for being born a bastard, like her obtuse older brother had. Much like how Jon would never tell her she was _lucky_ for being born a girl.

He wrapped his arm over her shoulder as he guided her to her bedchamber. "Shall I send for the chamber maid?" he asked by the door.

"Please don't, she'll want to bath and scrub me," shuddered Arya.

"As you will, by all means stay dirty," Jon smiled. "Goodnight, sweet sister."

She turned to the door, but then she stopped. "Jon?"

"Yes?"

Arya looked at him and bit on her little lips. _A Stark after all_. "Do tell," she finally said. "Are you in trouble?"

"What do you mean, Arya?" he asked cautiously.

"You are being followed. Did you know that?"

She said it offhandedly, but he felt a sudden pang of fear, as if all the blood in his veins had turned to ice. _Well, you wanted to play the game, now face the consequences_. "I am being followed… by whom?" he slowly asked.

"Your maid, for one. And the cook's kid, that freckled little weasel, Turnip or whatever the name is. They're keeping an eye on you. Why's that, Jon? Did you do something bad?" And as he didn't answer at once, she added: "And why does Robb cry in the godswood?"

 _Why does Robb cry in the godswood._ "Are _you_ spying on him too?" he demanded, and his voice rang sharper than he had intended. He instantly regretted it. The sudden paralysing fear was making him forget himself, but this would not do. If he was planning to win this game, he had to learn to govern himself. Arya was his sweet sister, his most likely ally in Winterfell, and if the backlash was indeed coming, he would need her more than anyone. _More than obtuse Robb, who for some reason cries in the godswood_. He knelt down in front of his little sister and gently placed his hands on her skinny shoulders.

"Please tell me what you mean, Arya," he said softly.

"I'm hardly the only one, Jon," she said. "And as it happens, I was there by mistake. I was looking for this… thing… I have – no matter. But I was truly there by mistake. And then I saw him. Crying, I mean. And then – Well, he's always there. And there are always eyes watching him – and you, wherever you go."

"Who?"

"I've seen a few – Well, there were those old scullery maids, the grumpy ones who never let us take sweets from the kitchens? They're keeping an eye on him, and so does Tilly, his chamber maid. I know she's gone through his things – in his room, I've heard her. They probably look in your room as well, Jon, I bet they do."

"Who put them up to it?" He asked, _but of course I already know the answer, don't I_.

Arya did as well. "Why, Mother, of course. They all report to her." Then she added something he had not suspected, but once she said it, he wondered how he could have possibly missed it.

"And then, of course, there's Greyjoy."

"Greyjoy?" _Of course_.

"Didn't you notice?" She couldn't hide her pleasure in knowing so many things he hadn't. "Well, that's actually pretty hilarious when you think of it.  He has to account for Robb at all times, right? So he has to put up with all the shit that –"

"Arya –"

"Yes, I mean – he has to put up with Robb. It's really funny." And she imitated her older brother: " _Enough, Theon. Measure your words, Theon. Do this, Theon. Stand on your head, Theon_." She chuckled. "And he has to do it, right? Because Mother probably told him Robb mustn't suspect a thing. Robb thinks he's got Greyjoy under his thumb, but I bet he just wants to smack Robb right in the jaw all the way to seven hells, and I tell you, one day he would snap –"

 _Well, that does explain a few things_. Greyjoy had followed Robb around like a lost mutt; Greyjoy had looked for Robb in the armoury; Greyjoy had shut up when Robb told him to. Of course. _What exactly has that whoreson seen, and how much does he know?_ Jon found himself more apprehensive of his father's ward than of all the chamber maids and turnips combined.

"But did you do something bad, Jon?" Arya pleaded with him. "You can tell me."

Jon wondered just how much he _could_ tell her. Could he truly confide in her? Yes, she was his favourite sibling, and she was an extremely bright girl, but she was so young. Arya was only a child, and a highborn child at that, a little lady no matter how vehemently she was going to deny it. What would she understand of being a bastard and having no place, or of bodily perversion and carnal lust, or of emotions deep and tantalising and – well – _incestuous_? What would she say if she knew exactly what kind of bad things he had done to Robb? No, he could not tell her the truth. But he could tell her as few lies as he dared.

"No, sweet sister," he said. "I have not done anything bad. But your lady mother thinks I have. That is, she thinks I will do bad things to Robb if I am given the chance. She thinks he should not be close to me, because he will rule Winterfell one day, and I'm just the bastard." _It hurts, gods, it's true and it still hurts._

"That's horrible!" Arya whispered. "That's why he cries! You're his brother, you're our family!"

"I know that," Jon said, "and you know that. But your lady mother does not think so. She'd rather send me away. She has never wanted me here. And I think – if what you say is true – that she is looking for a reason to get rid of me."

Arya understood at once. "She'll find something to tell Father so he'll send you away!"

"Aye," he nodded. "And that's why I need your help. I don't want to give your lady mother any reason to do so. Keep your eyes open and your ears sharp, sweet sister. Tail the tails, spy after the spies. Let me know right away if you learn anything."

"I will," Arya said, and she looked positively excited. _Like Robb on his quest of finding my true heritage_. "You bet I will!" And she jumped over him and gave him a fierce hug, burying her face in his hair. "I'll never let Mother send you away, Jon. You're my only friend."

 _Yes, that's what I do to my friends. To the people I love the most. To my sweet brother and my sweet sister_ , Jon thought as he embraced Arya to his chest. _A creature of lust. And betrayal_.


	5. La Règle du Jeu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You need to grow up, lad. And fast," said Theon. "You're used to everyone liking you, and I give you that, you are very likeable. But men can like you and still stab you in the back."
> 
> Chapter 5, in which it becomes apparent that Jon Snow means Robb no good.

"Sansa or Greyjoy?" Jon asked.

The room was dark, save for the tallow candle burning dimly on the window sill. Robb lay naked on his side, his curled toes twisting on the thick furs of Jon's bed. The thin belt strap cut into his wrists. _It's too tight_ , Robb thought. He wondered, not for the first time, if Jon really knew what he was doing. _It's going to leave a mark, this much is certain_.

"What about them?" Robb said.

His half-brother's hands were wrapped over his waist, palms resting on his inner thighs, torturously close to his erection, not near enough for relief, but impossible to ignore. Jon had taken him from behind, entering slowly and gently as if they had all the time in the world. And Robb supposed they had. Their lord father had ridden for Torrhen's Square earlier that morning, and for once Lady Catelyn had decided to join him. Robb was now the Stark in Winterfell, a mere formality, but one which seemed to torment Jon all evening long, until he had finally ordered Robb to follow him to his bedchamber. _And just look at me now, Mother. See how I choose to honour my responsibility, by rolling in the furs with my half-brother_.

Jon was already buried deep inside of him, but had not started moving yet. He softly hummed a mellow tune onto Robb's nape, the way a nursemaid might sing to a babe in his cot, until Robb sighed in response, slackened the tension in his limbs and let his arms dangle loosely from his tunic's belt, which Jon had tied securely to the headboard.

It did not hurt nearly as much as it had the first time in _the sept_ , but Robb did not like it any better. And yet, this was how Jon wanted to play tonight, and as Robb was gradually finding out, what he himself wanted was of very little importance to Jon's games.

"Sansa or Greyjoy?" Jon repeated and shifted Robb's curls aside to plant a slow kiss on his nape. "Who would you rather fuck?"

Jon had many games, a whole list of depraved acts he was planning to do, and he had promised he would put Robb through each and every one of them. He had made him do sick things; he had made him say awful things. _I liked what you made me do_ , Robb had told him that evening in the solar. And he had. Afterwards he had always liked it. But while he was lying there, tied like a suckling pig to Jon's bed, with his half-brother's cock deep inside of him, pain blurring his eyes, and _the need_ , that awful need to be touched, leaving him restless and breathless, he wondered what had driven him back time and time again, and whether he had not already lost his mind.

"Why would you ask me that?" Robb tried to look back at his half-brother, but the angle was wrong. He could see Jon's arm, a few black curls and the thick clouds through the window. _A moonless night_ , _the lord of the castle is away, and the heir and the bastard come out to play._ Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see his lady mother's sharp look of disappointment and mistrust. She had spoken very little to him after _the sept_ , it seemed. _Mother, if you could only see me now. Sometimes I wish you would._

Jon left a trail of kisses down Robb's nape to his left shoulder before answering. "What makes you tick, Stark? The incest or the buggery?"

Robb writhed. Jon's hands were so close, _so close_ … He could wriggle and rub against them, just to satisfy that sick, intense need, _just a little bit, I need this so much…_ but the linen belt restrained his movements, and then his half-brother's hands tightened on his skin, stilling him. Jon pulled his cock a tad back, and then pushed inside. Robb could not stifle his groan of pain.

"Touch me, Snow," he heard himself begging. "It hurts, touch me, touch me…"

"I will," Jon promised. "As soon as you answer me."

Jon had many games, but only one rule: _obey_. And hadn't Robb always liked it afterwards, when it was over? Despite his attempts at defiance, he had always ended up spent and done, his seed on Jon's hand, in Jon's mouth, on Jon's skin, on his own hand, moaning Jon's name, drained and shattered, begging for more, _more, more_.

 _Sansa or Theon_. He had to force himself to think. Of course he would not _fuck_ either of them. He would never inappropriately touch his sweet little sister or his lord father's ward, who was like an older brother to him. The mere thought of such depravity made him sick. But Jon's hands were so close, _so very close_ … Jon. _Who am I to speak of depravity?_

Theon had soft, fine dark hair, very straight, very different from Jon's thick wild locks or from Robb's shaggy mop of auburn curls. When Robb was younger and was still allowed to share his bed with his siblings on cold nights, sometimes he would visit Theon as well, mayhaps because Theon always had wine in his room. Eventually Robb's curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had wanted to know what it was like to get filthy drunk, and so he had convinced Jon to come with him to Theon's bedchamber. He had dreaded drinking alone with Theon and having the older boy laugh at him and mock his inexperience. Jon had ended up puking his dinner on the floor, while Robb had passed out on Theon's bed. Theon had made Jon clean the mess and then shooed him out, but he had covered Robb with his furs, waking him up an hour before sunrise to prod him back into his own bed, lest his lady mother should find out just how her firstborn had spent his night. Robb tried to imagine his lips on Theon's grinning mouth, Theon's fingers yanking on his curls. It made him nauseous with fear.

"Sansa," he said.

"The incest, then," Jon said. "Well, Westeros boasts a long tradition of brothers fucking sisters."

 _The dragons are gone_ , Robb suddenly thought of his lord father's words to Maester Luwin. Was it the incest? Was Jon truly his half-brother? It didn't feel that way, not really. Or perhaps Jon was right ( _he usually is_ ), perhaps something in the Westerosi blood had a natural inclination towards incest, the way the women of the Summer Islands ( _according to Theon_ ) took to ride their own men with wooden cocks, or the way the men of Old Volantis ( _according to Theon_ ) were not beyond mating with elephants. Robb pictured his little sister's soft lips on his own, his fingers trailing on her long auburn hair, her sweet lemony scent in his nose. It didn't make him sick. It didn't feel any different than pecking her cheek or sleeping cuddled next to her like he used to do only a few years back. It felt like touching his own reflection.

"The incest," Robb repeated.

"What would you do to her, Stark?" Jon rested his chin on Robb's shoulder, his hips now moving in slow, almost imperceptible circles.

"I would not do anything to her, she is my sister," said Robb. "You said… you promised you'd touch me."

"Tell me what you'd do to her," Jon's fingers edged closer, but not nearly enough.

"I'd… I'd…" _Damn you, Jon, my mind is not as filthy as yours._ "I'd get really drunk first."

Jon chuckled.

"Then… I'd…" _Oh fuck it_. "I'd come into her bedchamber at night, like I used to do when we were little."

"I remember," Jon said and pulled his cock back while his fingers trailed closer. "I liked having you there."

"As did I," Robb confessed and Jon pushed inside again. "My lady mother told me I was too old for that." Too old, too highborn, it didn't really matter. _Perhaps, Mother, had you allowed me and Jon to become true brothers, had you allowed us to share a bed just a while longer, I would not have found myself tied to his headboard._

"And then?" Jon asked.

"I'd slip into her bed while she's asleep. And I'd… kiss her," he concluded feebly. "Touch me, Snow… Please…"

This time Jon obliged, and he put his hand on his cock. His fingers were oiled, warm, and perfect in the way they curled around him, in an exquisite balance of pressure and gentleness. Robb let out a relieved sigh.

"Go on," Jon said.

"I don't know… I'd kiss her and she'd wake up… and… Who can even say if she'd be willing?"

"It's a fantasy, Stark," Jon started thrusting inside of him in slow, lazy movements as his hand stroked Robb unhurriedly, teasingly. "Of course she'd be willing."

"It's Sansa," Robb insisted. "She wouldn't."

"You'd be surprised at what people would be willing to do," Jon said and pulled Robb closer to him, letting himself all the way inside. "Who'd have thought you'd be willing to take my cock in your ass?"

Robb whimpered. "The way you talk, Snow… As you will, then," he braved on, encouraged by the slow pressure building inside of him, between Jon's thrusts and the hands relieving him of that terrible need. "She'd open her eyes and she'd be frightened at first, but then she'd see it's me and she'd smile at me. Sansa always smells like lemon… and wildflowers. Goldencups and gillyflowers." _Like the scent of the godswood as I kneel before the weirwood to ask forgiveness for all the sick things that I've done._ "She's gentle. I'd touch her gently. Just… kiss her down her neck. I'd ask her to take her sleeping tunic off."

Jon's mouth was on his neck again, as if following his words.

"And she would, her hands would be shaking but she would do it. I'd really want to kiss her breasts. She has such soft breasts, so pale, but her nipples are dark and hard. I've seen them," he admitted. "I'd caress her breasts, and I'd suck on her nipple. On both of them. She's ticklish, Sansa. It'd make her squirm and moan." One of Jon's hands climb up Robb's chest and caressed his nipple between two fingers. "Like that, yes. And with all the kisses and touches she'd beg for more. But… I wouldn't take my sister's maidenhood. I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't you?" Jon thrust faster, and each of his movements now caused the belt to tighten over Robb's wrists.

"No, I wouldn't dishonour her like that. I'd kiss her lower, down her soft belly, and I'd rub my mouth on her hair down there between her legs…"

"You'd eat Sansa's cunt?" Jon groaned, and Robb repeated after him, captivated by this feast of depravity: "I'd eat Sansa's cunt." He breathed in and rocked back, melding into Jon's chest, trembling under his hands, his mouth, his cock. "I'd spread her legs and I'd lick her cunt, I'd push my tongue deep down her hole, I'd drink all her juices and I'd suck on her clit and she'd lock her legs around my face and she'd cry out, she'd trap me inside… and…"

Then it hit him, a wave of pleasure all over his body, the pain all but forgotten, and he pushed hard against Jon, the skin of his wrists completely chafed and raw, and spent himself, moaning "Sansa" at first, and then "Jon, Jon" until he couldn't speak anymore. Jon followed him after the third time he had mumbled his name. "Sweet Robb," he whispered in his ear.

Later, after Jon had released the belt and rubbed Robb's wrists energetically between his palms to get the blood circulating again, and after they had wrapped their naked bodies in furs, and after Jon had started the fire in the hearth and poured them cups of spiced wine while Robb had examined the angry red marks on his hands, he knew he _had_ liked it, again he had. _I always like it afterwards._ _And no matter how much I cry, I come back seeking more. And so I shall continue until someone stops me._

"I'm glad you didn't pick Greyjoy," Jon said. His arm was wrapped around Robb, pressing him closer. Robb rested his cheek on his half-brother's shoulder, a thick grey fur draped around them both.

"Does it matter?" Robb wondered. _It's just a fantasy, isn't it? Just one of your filthy games. It means nothing._

"You shouldn't trust him," said Jon.

Robb looked up at his half-brother. "Why do you mislike him so?"

"You saw him threatening me."

"I saw you two _fighting_ in the armoury, like you always do."

"And that's why you almost bared your steel?" Jon asked. "Even you realise he's still an Ironborn. His father fought our father."

"That's hardly Theon's fault, he was just a child," Robb reasoned. "For all we know, _your_ true father had fought our father. And it wouldn't make me mislike you."

Jon's eyes darkened. "Whoever my true parents are," he said slowly, "I have not been a hostage in Winterfell for half my years. I have never feared for my life. You are a captor to Greyjoy, nothing more."

"Theon is a brother to me," Robb indignantly said what he had never quite dared to tell Jon before, dreading the sour expression which now rose on his half-brother's face. _You'd have me describe fucking Theon, should I wish to, but you'd not let me say how I really feel about him?_ It didn't seem very fair.

" _Theon_ ," Jon said the name as if it were poison in his mouth, "is a spy."

Robb narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean? Is he reporting to the Iron Isles –"

"No, Stark," Jon said. "He's spying on _you_ , for your lady mother."

Robb bit on his lower lip and stared hard at the fire dancing in the hearth. A sickening sensation rose inside of him, the sour and vile taste of betrayal. He took the wine cup to his lips and drained it. _It's not true. Theon is a brother to me._ _Jon mislikes Theon; he said as much. He could say anything._

There were things, however, that he could not deny and worse yet, that he could not fully explain. Theon had been everywhere, it was true. He sat next to Robb as they broke their fast, japed with him on their way to the morning practice, rode and hunted with him, endlessly tried to lure him into visiting Winter Town. They had always been friendly to each other, of course they were close, but never to that extent, and never had Theon sought out Robb's company so stubbornly. And the things Theon had let him get away with… Robb flushed, thinking of the way he had chided Theon and ordered him about, and his father's ward had just grinned back at him. Robb was not the Lord of Winterfell, not for a long while yet, and Theon was under no true obligation to listen to his orders. And yet he had. _Why, Theon? Are you my friend at all? Or have you been spending time with me just so you could report to my lady mother?_

"I'm sorry, Robb," Jon said gently and kissed his brow.

Robb closed his eyes. If that was true ( _and Jon may not like Theon, but he wouldn't lie to me, would he_?), he could not decide which was worse, Theon's betrayal or his mother's mistrust. Why would his lady mother send Theon to do that, to spy after her own son? She knew then, she obviously did. That thought made Robb even sicker, and he refilled his wine cup. Even if she hadn't managed to catch them red-handed in _the sept_ , she obviously had a pretty clear idea of what they were up to. And Jon was the one to see through this treason, as always. _Jon should've been our father's true son. What kind of a ruler am I going to be if I cannot see through such a simple ruse?_

"Play it smart, don't confront him," Jon said. "It's always better to know more than others think you do."

Robb nodded weakly, gnawing on his lip. Did they all know more than he thought they did? When had trust become foolishness, and mistrust an armour? Was that what being a man grown was all about?

"And what about you, Jon?" he asked.

"What about me?"

 _Do you know more than I think you do? Should I mistrust you as well?_ "Who would you pick, Sansa or Theon?" he asked instead.

"Only you," Jon said and pulled him closer. "No one but you."

 

Theon's furs were thrown on the stone floor and a few pillows were scattered next to the hearth, as if he had been sleeping there. The desk was overflowing with half-burnt candles, parchments and bowls of blueberries and ripe blue cheese. A pitcher of wine stood precariously on his nightstand, next to a couple of brass cups. Robb poured himself a cup, spilled a quarter of it to the floor, and then drained it without a word. Theon stood behind him and watched him silently. _Theon the traitor_ , Robb thought. _Theon the backstabber who pretends to be my friend._

"You should probably not drink anymore," Theon said.

"And you should probably not tell me what to do," Robb retorted.

"Someone should," said Theon and moved towards him. Robb backed away and slipped to the other side of the nightstand, where a thick red leather-bound book laid open, its slightly frayed pages depicting women in varying stages of disrobing.

"I am not your enemy," Theon said.

Jon had told him to play it smart, but Jon seemed to mistrust everyone and did not know how painful disillusion could be. Hurt had taken Robb down the stairs to Theon's bedchamber, and anger had made him knock on the door, unmindful of the sharp pain in his chafed wrists and of the complete stillness inside the castle walls at this late hour. _I am the Stark in Winterfell_ , he had thought while waiting for an answer, but in his veins flowed spiced wine along with the blood of the first men.

Theon, however, was unabashed. He had opened the door wearing only his smallclothes, and he had been busy wrapping his sleeping robe around himself while impassively listening to Robb. As soon as he had understood what it was all about ( _I could have made a stronger case_ , Robb thought, _had I been able to think straight_ ), he had not bothered to deny or even to apologise. He had finished tying his robe, turned around with a smile on his face, confirmed all of Robb's suspicions, and to add insult to injury, he had even proceeded to call Robb "exceedingly boring" for having "not done anything worth talking about for the entire month I've been tailing you" and expressed his deep disappointment that "the only time you've lied to me and run away, lad, was when I've tried to take you to a brothel. And you've ended up going to _the sept_."

And now they were at a standstill: Robb pouring himself cup after cup of Dornish red, seething in his fury, and Theon with his crooked smile trying to reach him around the nightstand.

"I don't even know who my enemies are anymore," Robb said.

"Come here, lad," Theon said. "Don't make me smack you."

"As if I'd let you," Robb said.

"Stop acting like a child," Theon ordered, "and _don't_ touch the wine, you've had enough. Come here, Robb. Come on."

Robb, deliberately, looking Theon right in the eye, poured himself another generous cup of Dornish red. _In your face, traitor_. Then, not entirely sure what he wanted to do, he complied and slowly moved to Theon's side. He sat down on the bed, feeling the soft mattress giving under his weight. Theon's bed was large enough to sleep four, and Theon had claimed that he had.

"That's the last cup," Theon said and settled next to him.

Robb raised the cup to his mouth and drank slowly, feeling the alcohol rising to his head, flowing in warm waves around his body. He'd had too much. It was hard to keep his eyes open. He let the empty cup fall to the floor and tried to shake himself awake. _I should've listened to Jon. I have confronted him, and I have confronted him angry and drunk. Could I have been any more of a fool? Jon would be furious, and rightfully so._

"Now," said Theon. "Don't be mad with me, Robb. I do what I'm told to do, is all. Your lady mother thinks you've gotten yourself into some kind of a mess." Theon all of a sudden took Robb's wrists in his hands, and Robb let out a small cry of surprise ( _of sharp pain_ ). Theon nodded. "Have you, lad? Have you gotten yourself into a mess?"

"No." _Maybe. Yes. I don't know_.

"Is there something I _should_ be telling your lady mother?"

"No." _Yes. Send Jon away, as far as you can. Send him to Deepwood Motte, to Oldtown, to Sunspear, to the Wall. So I may never see him again._

"Alright then," said Theon. "If that's your answer, I won't tell her a thing. But I need you to listen to me very carefully. Do you understand, Robb?"

Robb nodded. _I've come to lecture him, now he's the one to lecture me._

"I've watched you for the last month," said Theon. "You're a good lad, Robb. You're responsible. You don't whore. You don't drink. Well, _usually_ you don't drink. You work hard, and you train harder. You do everything you are told to do. As far as I can see, your only vice is your overattachment to your bastard brother."

_My overattachment. Well, that's one word for it._

"And you should be careful, lad," said Theon gravely. "Jon Snow means you no good."

"Does he now?" Robb flared up. "And what would _you_ know about that, Theon the traitor?"

"A little," said Theon, unfazed. "And enough. I know that each man covets what he cannot have. When Snow looks at you, he sees all he would never have. A name, a title, a place to belong to, a future. All that and more."

Robb remembered Jon's dark stare when he had earlier mentioned Jon's true father. He remembered Jon's ugly, hateful words in _the sept_. He remembered the way Jon had looked tormented whenever one of the servants had referred to Robb as 'Lord Stark'. _Each man covets what he cannot have_.  "Easy for you to slander Jon, but he didn't choose the way he was born, no more than any of us," Robb decided. _I know what Jon covets. And by gods he has it. I give him everything he wants._ "What about you, Theon? What do you covet?"

"What you have," Theon said plainly, his fingers tightening around Robb's wrists. "What I will never have. A family. Brothers."

Robb bit his lip. The wine swirled in his head, along with a feeling of deep shame and guilt. _And you shall never have this. My lord father and King Robert made sure of that. You're a hostage and a prisoner. But it's not your fault; it's not my fault either. You were just a child, and I was even younger_. "I am your brother, Theon," he said.

"So you are," Theon nodded. "Or as close as I will ever get to one. So listen to me as you would listen to an older brother. Jon Snow is not your friend."

"Jon would never harm me –"

"There's highborn, Robb," Theon said and grabbed his chafed wrists harder, silencing him. "And then there's lowborn. The two of us do not mix. _They_ will always covet what _we_ have. And the sooner you learn it, the better. There's a way this game is played, and if you cannot understand the rules, you will lose. If I am a brother to you, I mean to protect you."

"Protect me," Robb felt dizzy. "From Jon?"

"You need to grow up, lad. And fast," said Theon. "You're used to everyone liking you, and I give you that, you are very likeable. But men can like you and still stab you in the back."

Robb shut his eyes. It was all too much to take at this hour, especially after a full pitcher of wine. Jon said not to trust Theon. Theon said Jon was not his friend. They were both his brothers. _Could be they both mean me no good_. They both liked him. _Could be they both can still stab me in the back_.

"So I'm likeable?" He said instead. "Didn't you want to smack me?"

"You bet," Theon said. "And if you tell me to shut up one more time, I swear the gods I will. But you are. Likeable. Hells, I wish you were born a girl. We could've married and ruled the north together."

Robb flushed and disengaged his hands from Theon's. "I have a sister, though," he said.

"So you do," Theon's lips curled up in a smile.

They sat facing each other for another quiet minute, and then Theon lowered himself down on the bed and wrapped one of the furs around his waist. "Come, lad," he said. "You're in no shape to climb the stairs now." He pulled Robb next to him. _Just like when I was little, but we're not children anymore_. Robb laid his head on the soft pillow near Theon, enjoying the heat from the hearth and from the warm body close by. Sleep washed over him, and he welcomed it.

"Theon?" he mumbled before his eyes closed.

"Aye?"

"We _will_ rule, one day, you and I. We will be high lords, and the north will be ours. Your loyalty should lie with me, not with my lady mother."

"It does," Theon said, his face serious.

"Then you will continue to spy on me. And you will tell my lady mother exactly what I do at all times," Robb said. "But after you report to her, you shall come back, brother, and you shall report to _me_."

 

When Robb stumbled back to his bedchamber, as the soft rays of dawn crept over the moss between the stones of the Great Keep, he realised someone was already there. The door was ajar. A chair was being moved. A girl's voice spoke. _The maids_ , he thought. _Are they cleaning the room this early?_

Robb pressed himself to the wall and slowly edged towards the door. His head was throbbing; his wrists felt infected.

"He never even slept here," said the soft girlish voice. It was Tilly, the chamber maid, a mousy girl of four-and-ten. "M'lady won't be happy, I tell you," answered another female voice, much older. Someone was pacing back and forth along the room.

"Mayhaps he's in Winter Town."

The other one snickered. "Not this one, mark my word," she said. Robb recognised her now. Big Tessa had watery blue eyes and the largest nose he had ever seen, and she was under his family's service for as long as he could remember (Little Tessa, on the other hand, worked in the kitchens, and Theon had said she was the best cocksucker in the castle). "When the Greyjoy boy was the little lord's age, he taken all the kitchen girls and then some, but not the little lord, no. The little lord isn't interested in _that_."

"Mayhaps he's shy." Water splashed across the floor.

"M'lord was a shy boy, I remember. And still he fathered a bastard, didn't he," Big Tessa said triumphantly.

"I don't know why m'lady wants herself rid of Jon," said Tilly, sadness creeping into her voice. "He's so nice and kind."

"Aye," said the older woman. "Nice and kind and will slit the little lord's throat if there's any gain in it. Bastards be like that, child, demonic creatures they are. And they always want what others have. Envy, and greed, that's what makes them."

"Mother save us," the young girl whispered. Robb heard the furnishing being pushed back in place and the sound of fresh sheets being stretched on his bed. _I should punish them_ , he thought, _I should put them in the branks. Lowborn are not allowed to speak this way about their superiors._

"M'lady has the right of it," said Big Tessa. "Everything the bastard will ever get, he'll take from the blood of the little lord."

Robb darted around the corner as they left his bedchamber. He waited until their chattering had been swallowed under the stone staircase, and then he tiptoed inside, shut the door behind him, and after a thought, also barred it. The bedchamber was clean and tidy, the windows slightly open to let the fresh morning air in. Robb collapsed on the new sheets of his bed. He looked down at his wrists. The colour had turned dark purple. _The blood of the little lord_.

"The little lord isn't interested in _that_ ," Big Tessa had said. _Is that what they all think? Is that what Theon thinks? Is that why he was talking to me that way, about being born a girl, about marriage? To embarrass me?_ Mayhaps he should go to Winter Town and pay for a whore. Mayhaps he should go down to the kitchens and pinch the rosy arses of the scullery maids and get Little Tessa down on her knees. _Mayhaps…_ He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself in the brothel, his breeches down, a nude girl riding his cock. The girl had large soft breasts and he sent his hands to caress them. They were so pale, like her skin and her blue eyes, but the nipples were full, hard and very dark. She leant onto him to kiss him, her long auburn curls falling on his face. She smelt of gillyflowers and goldencups and lemon cakes. _Is it the incest or the buggery?_ He held his fantasy Sansa and kissed her ethereal lips as he wept into his pillow. _I don't know. I don't know_.


	6. La Bête Humaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon noticed the slow change looming over the castle. Under the calm surface, Winterfell was buzzing like a beehive. It was the edge to Lady Stark's voice when she had spoken to her firstborn. It was how Robb had suddenly stopped ordering Greyjoy about. It was the liberty Greyjoy had started to take in touching Robb. Now Jon could only watch and wait. He was good at that, at least. He had been doing it his whole life.
> 
> Chapter 6, in which words come to blows, and Jon is outsmarted at his own game.

"Suck on it, Stark," he told Robb.

They were standing inside the armoury. The evening sky darkened with the chill of an early summer snow. Robb had just finished cleaning his longsword. He had put it back on the racks before wiping his oily fingers on his breeches with a sheepish grin. Like Jon, he was not yet allowed to wear steel outside the practice yard, but he more than made up for it by caring for his sword as he would for a maiden bride. By the door of the low stone building Greyjoy was chattering to Sansa and her little friends, and Jon took advantage of the sudden respite to insert his thumb into Robb's mouth and whisper huskily in his ear, "if you do it well, I'll even let you suck on my cock."

Robb shuddered lightly and his lips parted. He looked at Jon as his tongue trailed under the thumb, and then he latched onto it, his teeth gently grazing the knuckle, his mouth wet and incredibly warm.

"You'd like that, Stark?" Jon murmured. Robb nodded and his lips tightened around his brother's thumb as his tongue licked the length of it. Sansa laughed outside and Jeyne followed after her. Greyjoy's laughter was the loudest.

He had not yet put _the little lordling_ on his knees to use him this way. The thought of Lady Stark's precious firstborn with Jon's cock in his mouth was so delicious that he had to save the actual act for a special occasion. By now he'd had Robb a few times already. He'd had him in the stables just a few hours before Lord and Lady Stark returned from Torrhen's Square, the last night in which he could bend the Stark in Winterfell over like a little whore. Jon had made his brother lean against his brown palfrey while he fucked him. Robb mumbled that _it was wrong, it was wrong_ each time Jon thrust into him. Two days ago he had made Robb wank himself slowly in the glass gardens, with Jon's fingers shoved deep inside of him, stopping him each time he was about to spend himself. Tears of frustration and anger streamed down Robb's cheeks until he fell on all fours with his head between Jon's boots. "What are you doing to me, Jon Snow?" he murmured when he was finally allowed to come. He had turned very pale by then, and afterwards he lay on the soft earth, panting heavily with his seed drying between his fingers and on the light hair of his lower abdomen. He had not said anything for a long time, and Jon had almost pitied him. Then a soft smile had spread on Robb's face.

"At dinner, then," Greyjoy called, and Robb jerked his head back and turned away from Jon, as their lord father's ward entered the armoury to empty his quiver and hang his bow.

"So," Greyjoy said to Robb, "does it feel any different?"

"May-mayhaps," Robb said cautiously, his cheeks still flushed.

For over a week Jon had been waiting for his plan to bloom and for Robb to snap at Greyjoy. Robb, however, seemed to have grown even more attached to their father's ward than before. He _had_ confronted him; Jon knew that for a fact. Robb had confronted him drunk on spiced wine and full of righteous fury. That part of the plan had worked just fine. What happened afterwards, however, had not. _And there will be consequences to my failure. There already are._

He noticed the slow change looming over the castle. Under the calm surface, Winterfell was buzzing like a beehive. It was the edge to Lady Stark's voice when she had spoken to her firstborn ( _what little she did, lately_ ). It was how the maids had become remarkably meticulous in their cleaning work. It was how Robb had suddenly stopped ordering Greyjoy about. It was the liberty Greyjoy had started to take in touching Robb. While never overly concerned with other people's personal space, lately Greyjoy always seemed to be a tad too close. Jon had seen them sparring in the yard that morning. Robb was in his linen undershirt, sweating and panting, and he had Greyjoy pinned to the ground. He straddled the older boy, his face proud and fierce and his damp locks hanging to the sides of his brow. Then Greyjoy laughed, grabbed him by the waist and toppled him over. It had looked almost obscene.

Jon had never liked being outsmarted at his own game. He had no doubt that Greyjoy was doing it to spite him, that he had a certain idea as to what was happening. He touched Robb innocently enough to the unsuspecting eye, and boldly enough to make Jon's blood boil. But just how much _did_ he know? It was obvious he had not told Lady Stark a thing yet. _So what is your goal? What is it that you really want, Greyjoy?_ It was not just a question of pride. Being outsmarted at this particular game was a luxury Jon could not afford. It could mean his death.

No use dwelling on his mistake, Jon decided. _Fear eats the soul_. Now he could only watch and wait. Jon was good at that, at least. He had been doing it his whole life.

"Come and try again if you're not sure," Greyjoy said cheerfully. "Next time you can join us, Snow. It'd do you good."

"Theon," Robb said with an edge to his voice.

"Join you where?" Jon asked.

"Haven't you told him?" Greyjoy cocked his brow at Robb as a wide grin spread over his face. "You should congratulate your _brother_ , Snow. He's a man now."

Robb shot what seemed to be a desperate look at Greyjoy. "Theon, please," he said.

"And he's a natural, our little wolf," Greyjoy continued, oblivious to Robb's discomfort – or perhaps all too aware of it. "That wench just wouldn't stop talking of the things he did."

Robb turned his gaze to Jon now, his teeth biting into his bottom lip, his blue eyes wide and pleading. He looked much the way he had at ten years old, when Lady Stark had caught them stealing pudding from the kitchens. Jon met his eyes with a blank, unflinching stare. _Don't make any further mistakes_ , he ordered himself. _Learn to govern your anger or you will lose this game._

"If you liked the ginger wench," Theon continued and wrapped his arm around Robb, "I know this one redhead who's a much better fuck. She'll suck on your balls and moan like a pig when you nail her. You can hear her squeal all the way to Winterfell."

 _All the filthy things I have done to you, and it still has not been enough to satiate my little lordling._ That image kept flashing into his mind as Greyjoy spoke: Robb, in Winter Town or elsewhere, on top of a squealing girl, her legs spread apart, his hands pinning her wrists down to the furs, his face sweaty, his eyes closed, the way he always looked when Jon fucked him hard and good. It seemed to Jon that he might break under the weight of the anger which washed over him. _No, sweet Robb. You don't get to be like that. Not with anyone but me._

"Stop it, Theon," Robb said. "Snow is not interested in that."

"But I am," Jon said harshly. "A redhead, then? Runs in the family."

"Well said, Snow," Greyjoy seemed highly amused by that remark. His smile widened. "Our Lord would not settle for less."

"Enough, I said," Robb croaked and jerked Greyjoy's arm away. Without another word he strode out of the armoury.

"He wasn't that shy last night," Greyjoy laughed.

Jon would have given the world to punch the smirk off Greyjoy's mug, but his father's ward was five years older than him and much stronger. Perhaps Robb could wrestle him down, but Jon surely couldn't. _Govern yourself or lose_ , he reminded himself. He nodded curtly to Greyjoy and then turned on his heels to follow Robb. He caught up to his brother near the inner gatehouse on the way to the Great Hall. He then slowed down to match his pace. Robb seemed to find the ground terribly interesting.

"Congratulations, then," Jon said.

"No, Snow," Robb tried his best Lord of Winterfell voice on him. "We will talk about this later."

"That we will," Jon promised him darkly.

 

Lady Stark had never cared for Jon, and there was not a soul in Winterfell who was ignorant of that fact, not even Hodor, Jon suspected. In the last few weeks, however, it was as though she could barely stand the sight of him. As soon as he had entered the Great Hall that evening, closely following his brother, her eyes narrowed, her mouth hardened and she made every effort to disregard his presence completely.

In a way, it still hurt Jon.

In another way, a much more insidious way, it made Jon strangely smug. No matter how much she misliked him, she still had to share a table with him. His lord father had made certain that she would have no say in that matter. Jon couldn't help but gloat over the thought of how painfully frustrated it must make her to be unable to do anything about his presence, to watch him like an open sore in front of her eyes each time she sat at the table to eat. She could never escape the shame and dishonour which Jon embodied in her eyes, and he was intent on reminding her of that. Whenever possible, he made a point to sit next to Robb, to whisper in her son's ears. _Look at me, my lady. Look at the bastard next to the heir, next to your pride and joy._

Lady Stark surely thought Jon was a threat to Robb and his birthright by his mere existence. She didn't know the half of it. She didn't know how Jon could make him moan. She didn't know how her son sounded like when he begged to be fucked. _You birthed a little whore, my lady, and I bet you are a whore yourself,_ he thought with malice as he took his seat next to his brother. _What do you sound like when you moan and beg, I wonder? I bet you're not so haughty then, my lady. I bet you suck on my father's cock like I do on your son's. I'd like to see you then. I'd like sweet Robb to see you._

Robb forked a slice of roasted meat from the trencher and tore himself a generous portion of fresh bread. His face was still and collected. He filled his wine cup, dipped the bread in the gravy and started chewing slowly as he listened to their lord father, who was telling Arya and Bran about the journey to Torrhen's Square. If his brother was aware of the way Jon was looking at him, he gave him no indication. It seemed he was trying his best not to look at Jon at all.

Anger and jealousy, Jon was finding, were more potent than the strongest wine, and they rushed to his head just as fast. _Oh no, you don't_ , he thought, feeling his limbs shaking. _You don't get to just ignore me like your bitch of a mother._ He placed his hand on Robb's thigh under the table, and with a slight satisfaction watched his brother turn back to look at him.

"A redhead," Jon said in a low voice. "I wonder what gave you that idea." And with a smile he passed the meat trencher to his half-sister on his left. "There you are, Sansa."

"Thank you," she said and helped herself to a few choice cuts before passing the roasted meat along.

"You liked your fantasy so much, Stark?" he turned back to Robb, his fingers caressing the soft skin through the wool of his breeches. "You had to look for it in a brothel? She was right here all along."

"I promise, Jon," Robb whispered back, his face white. "I'll explain everything later."

Jon leant closer to him. "Did you eat the ginger whore's cunt?" he whispered in Robb's ear and felt his brother stilling against him. "Did you lick it and think of your little sister?"

"Please, Jon, not here," Robb begged in a small, desperate voice. "My lady mother is watching."

From across the high table, Lady Stark's eyes were fixed on her precious firstborn and the bastard. She had a slice of meat skewered on her fork, and she slowly raised it to her pressed mouth while never breaking eye contact with them both. Jon felt his lips curl into an ugly smile as he locked his gaze with her and moved his hand up to squeeze his brother's cock. _That little whore is hard already._ It was not enough to see Robb pale and begging. If anything, his obvious distress only served to increase Jon's anger. The ugly words kept forming in his mouth, threatening a verbal vomit he could no longer restrain, no matter how much he told himself he had to govern his feelings or he would lose the game _. I'll lose, mayhaps, but I'll take him down with me._

"Aye, she surely is watching," Jon growled in his ear. "Mayhaps, mayhaps it's not Sansa after all. You care an awful lot about your lady mother, don't you, Stark? _My lady mother saw me, my lady mother is watching_. Mayhaps it's another redhead altogether that you'd like to fuck."

Robb made a gruesome, choked sound. "Stop, don't," he said, horrified.

"I saw you," Jon whispered. "You're such a mother's boy, aren't you? No wonder you're so distant with Father. Secretly you resent him for it. He fucks her. You never will."

Robb was extremely still. Jon could hear his ragged breath over the sounds of conversation and laughter. Lady Stark was watching them intently, chewing on her meat. Jon's hand rubbed harder against his brother's erection.

"Would you like to fuck her, Stark? Would you like to make her moan, the one who brought you into this world? Would you have your fingers in your lady mother's cu –"

Then he was thrown off the seat with such force that he found himself with his back to the floor and his head knocked against the hard, coarse stones. Robb was straddling him and hitting him relentlessly, one fist blow mashing into the other.

"I'll kill you!" Robb shouted and threw his clenched fist in Jon's jaw. "I'll fucking kill you! You fucking whoreson!"

Robb was always so compliant with Jon that it was easy to forget just how strong he was. His fist landed again on the side of Jon's face before he could even try to struggle out of his brother's grip, and then Robb yanked on his hair and thrashed his head on the floor. From the corner of his eye Jon could see Arya and Bran climbing on the table. Another fist crashed against his ribcage, knocking the breath out of him. Sansa screamed.

Greyjoy laughed.

"You fucking _bastard_!" Robb leant onto him, yelling and spitting, as he kept slamming Jon's head down. The pain was so hot-white and blinding that he could hardly move. His vision dimmed. Robb's weight on his chest and the fists slamming into him were making it almost impossible to breathe. He tasted blood running out of his mouth. Then, after what seemed like an eternity too long, someone pulled Robb off him. Jon was left lying on the stone floor, coughing and shaking. Blood was dripping on his brow and down his lips to his chin. Greyjoy was standing over him with a wide smile, holding Robb in a tight grip. Robb was still swearing, screaming _bastard, bastard_ and all the things he was going to do to Jon if Greyjoy would _just fucking let go_ of his arm. Apart from Robb's shouts, the Great Hall was completely silent.

"Theon, if you please," Lord Stark finally said. "Take my sons to their rooms."

Jon took Greyjoy's hand when it was offered. He had no strength left to stand up on his own. His father's ward pulled him up, and holding both him and Robb, he marched them to the great oaken door out of the hall. Robb glared at Jon, unable to reach him and fulfil his promises. "I'll kill you, bastard," he panted.

Jon could not see very well through the blood dripping over his brow, but he had a strong feeling that at the back of the high table, Lady Catelyn Stark was smiling.

 

"Come seek me if there is any vomiting," said Maester Luwin. "No teeth were knocked out; I would say you are pretty lucky."

"Yes," Jon said. "Lucky."

The Maester smiled thinly. "My lord," he nodded to Jon's father as he left the bedchamber. Jon was sitting on his bed. He pressed a linen bandage to his head, after having soaked it with the sour-smelling herbal infusion which the Maester had prepared for him. The fire in the hearth was burning merrily, but Jon could not stop shivering. The Maester had ascertained him that he had not shown any signs of concussion, but Jon still had a feeling that if he were to close his eyes, he would never wake up.

 _Perhaps it won't be so bad_. He could not shake off the venomous hatred in Robb's eyes and the way his brother had spat the word _bastard_ out. And to make matters worse, now his lord father wanted a word with him.

Lord Stark stood next the hearth, his hands behind his back, silently studying the angry bruises on Jon's face and neck. He did not look very fatherly. "It gives me no pleasure to see my sons like this," he finally said.

"Robb hit _me_ ," Jon said defensively.

"And you provoked him," continued his lord father. "I am not blind, Jon."

Jon felt the icy fear in his veins again, but he did not know of what exactly he was afraid. His father had seen him whispering to Robb; that was all he meant. Had Lord Stark known the truth, they would not be having this conversation. He would have sent Jon to take the black, or more likely, to be beheaded. _Fear eats the soul_ , he reminded himself. He looked his father in the eyes and nodded slightly.

"I did," he admitted. "We had a fight…"

"Jon," his father sat next to him. "I had two brothers myself, and a sister who was just as wild as them. I know what it's like."

Jon knew little of his uncles and aunt. Two of them were dead before Jon was even born, one choked his last breath to the Mad King's pleasure, the other was raped and tortured by the king's gallant son. The only uncle he had left was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch and had hardly ever visited Winterfell. Still, Jon supposed that if the stories he had heard about his dead uncle Brandon held a grain of truth to them, his father did know all about siblings and fistfights. What his father surely knew nothing about, however, was the blinding jealousy for a sibling who had sneaked off to meet a redhead whore in Winter Town.

Jon nodded. "I just got angry," he said, "and Robb too."

"You are not children anymore," said his father, "Robb will rule in Winterfell when his time comes, and he will need your support and your loyalty."

"He'll always have that," Jon said hotly.

"There are all too many forces that will try to undermine us," his father said sombrely. He had never talked this way to Jon before, and it made him apprehensive. _Which forces? Who plots against House Stark at this time of peace? Why does Father tell that to me of all people?_ His belly started to flutter, along with the painful swirl in his head. "We need to be strong within. We cannot have any rifts between us," his father added.

"I know," Jon said. He had not planned to leave this rift open, either. He had to fix the damage he had caused before things got out of hand. _If they haven't already_. As Greyjoy marched them off, Jon had managed to send his hand to grab Robb's wrist. He had pulled his brother to him and had been able to whisper in his ear, "leave your door open, Stark," before Greyjoy had shoved him off with such force that had sent him spiralling to the floor next to his door. They had left him there, Robb sullen and silent and Greyjoy chuckling softly, his arm draped around Robb to move him up the stairs to his own bedchamber. "Come, lad," Jon had heard him tell his brother.

 "You are of the same blood," Lord Stark said. "I will not have my sons rolling on the floor like animals."

"I am sorry, Father," Jon said meekly. _Are we, Father? Of the same blood?_ He was not so sure of that anymore. _The dragons are gone_. His father's words in the library tower still occasionally echoed in his head. _And if you knew just how your sons roll on the floor like animals_. Jon thought of the tears welling in Robb's eyes as he fell to the moist earth of the glass gardens, fervently wanking himself off while Jon's fingers were pumping in and out of him. He had to talk to him, had to hold him, had to put him back on his knees.

"Jon," his father started slowly, and Jon suddenly had a sinking feeling in his chest. "Would you be happier if you lived somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else?" Jon repeated after him. When he had been younger, and even now from time to time, he'd had terrible nightmares in which his father had decided to send him away to be fostered in some other household. Jon had always woken up from those dreams on the verge of tears, sweaty, confused and immensely relieved to find himself in his bedchamber in Winterfell, to know that he had still belonged there. He could not bear to hear his father say it out loud. He hurriedly replied before Lord Stark had a chance to continue. "No, Father. This is my home, I belong here with my brothers and sisters, with Robb. Like you said. I need to stand by his side."

His father squeezed his shoulder. "Very well," he said, and Jon found his breath again. "Now go to rest, Jon. You don't look well."

"Yes, Father," Jon said. His head swirled in pain. He wondered whether the door would be open, whether Robb would still kneel before him, whether he had ruined the last good thing he had. _Please leave it open, sweet Robb. Leave it open._

 

Robb's bedchamber was icy cold and hauntingly silent. The moon shone bright in the cloudless sky, and small flakes of snow drifted through the half-opened windows. The fire had already died in the hearth. Robb had been dozing on the bed in his white sleeping tunic, just like in that sunny afternoon a lifetime ago, when Jon had kissed his soft lips and touched him under his breeches for the first time. _We are the last living souls in Winterfell_ , he though. _It's just him and me now_. Robb rose to sit on the feather mattress as Jon entered, looking slightly startled, his hair dishevelled and his eyes wide.

Jon closed the door behind him. A terrible weight was lifted off his chest when it opened under his touch, but he was not going to take any risks. With a deliberate motion he lowered the thick wooden bar of the door. Robb flinched but kept quiet. He remained still as Jon walked past the cold hearth towards the bed, approaching him slowly. _Like a hunter, closing in on his prey._

"Father said I should apologise to you," Robb said. He seemed subdued and tired. His eyes were puffed up. "I apologise. I should not have hit you."

Jon edged closer without replying. _Such a dutiful son. Could you make it any clearer that you are apologising just because you've been ordered to?_

"Get on with it, then," Robb said.

"With what?" Jon asked slowly.

"Punish me," Robb gnawed on his lower lip. "Is this not why you are here?"

 _Is this not why I'm here._ A part of him wanted nothing more but to hug Robb tightly to his chest and to kiss his sweet mouth for leaving the door open, for still being his. He also wanted Robb punished very badly, there was no denying that. The need to regain his hold on the reins was almost overwhelming. That swirl of jealousy, anger, even hatred, it was about to drive him mad. He had to let it out somehow, to find his release on Robb, on his noble face and on his prettily gnawed lips. The tenderness would have to wait, he decided. He had to first establish that he had not been outsmarted at his own game.

"Aye," he said, barely controlling his voice. "Get your cloak."

"Are we going out?" Robb asked, perplexed.

"Just put it on," Jon said.

Robb went to his dresser by the side of the room and reached for his cloak. It was a massive garment which had belonged to their grandfather and ( _according to Old Nan_ ) to an impressive line of sombre Lord Starks before him. It was fit for the wild northern winter more than for a chilly summer night indoors, even with the fire burnt out and the windows open. Lined with ermine fur and coloured grey and white as the Stark sigil, it was fastened with a clasp of a direwolf brooch made of pure silver. Jon had always been tantalised by the sight of Robb wearing his heirloom cloak, handsome, regal, the perfect _little lordling_.

"Come here," Jon ordered after Robb had clasped the cloak around his shoulders. "On your knees."

Robb dropped to his knees before Jon, his eyes looking up, the cloak forming a grey halo around him.

"Do you want me to suck you, Jon?" Robb asked weakly.

 _Do I want to? Of course I do. But not now. Not like this._ "No," he said coldly. "You're a little whore. You don't deserve that." He slowly untied the laces of his breeches, his anger swelling with the pleasure he derived out of Robb's hurt and confusion. He released his cock out of the laces and held it loosely in one hand in front of his brother's face.

"Hold the clasp," he said. "Open your mouth and hold the direwolf."

Robb obeyed. He parted his lips and his fingers held to the direwolf brooch under his neck. Jon curled his hand around his cock and started rubbing himself along his length in fast, brisk movements. His head hurt, his temples throbbed.

"Say it," he grunted as the tip of his cock almost touched Robb's lips.

"Say what?" Robb asked. His blue eyes were wide and fixed on Jon.

"That you're a little whore," Jon picked up his speed, focusing on the sudden anger which flashed in Robb's eyes and disappeared just as quickly. _You don't like it, Stark. You don't like it at all._

"I'm a little whore," Robb whispered, seemingly defeated.

"You licked that wench's cunt."

"I licked that wench's cunt," Robb repeated, "and made her come."

"You thought of Sansa."

"I thought of my little sister," his hands grasped harder on the brooch. "Not of my mother, you shouldn't have said that –"

"Shut it," Jon said as his fist moved erratically up and down his shaft. It was getting harder to control his movement. "You fucked her. That whore."

"I did," Robb said.

"You spent your seed inside of her."

"I held her down and spent inside of her. I may have a bastard of my own soon."

 _Aren't you a cheeky fuck_. His next stroke brought his cock rubbing on Robb's lips, but Jon pulled back. He didn't want to touch him. Robb's knuckles around the brooch were white.

"And you let Greyjoy touch you while you fucked her."

Robb swallowed. "I let him touch me."

"You like that. You like being touched by him."

"I do."

Jon's hand moved incredibly fast now, his breath was ragged. The pressure inside his stomach and his balls was as unbearable as the blinding pain in his head.

"Because you're a little whore."

"I'm a little whore," Robb whispered again. "Your little whore."

Jon groaned hard at that and the seed spurted in a heavy gush from his cock, splashing over Robb's hair, down on his face and then streaming in thin white lumps to his cloak. Jon squeezed himself again, making sure to let it all out, watching as his semen smeared on his brother's cheeks, plastered his messy curls to his brow, trickled on his lips. His last stroke sent a dribble straight on Robb's fingers holding the brooch. Jon panted and closed his eyes with the force of his release.

"I never touched her," said Robb.

"Wh-what?" Jon mumbled. His head was pulsing in pain.

"I never fucked anyone. And I sure as hells didn't let Theon touch me," Robb said. Jon's seed was dripping down his lips as he spoke.

"You went to the brothel –" Jon's cock was growing limp in his hand.

"Aye," Robb nodded. "And I paid the ginger girl. That's true. I paid her so she'd talk of the things we did… the things we supposedly did."

"Why?" Jon demanded.

"So that Theon doesn't think… so that they," he made a sweeping motion around the bedchamber, as if indicating thousands of invisible eyes glaring at them, "don't think… that I am. What I am." He still made no motion to clean the semen off his face and it was starting to unnerve Jon more than he cared to admit. _I've made a mistake. Another mistake. I never really put him back on his knees. I should've suspected how lenient he was after such violence earlier. Anger doesn't just fade away. I should know._

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I begged of you to listen," Robb said. "Would you have listened? You just wanted to hurt me, to humiliate me. Well, here you are, you did. The bastard came on the heir's face. How does it feel?"

"Clean yourself," Jon ordered.

"No," Robb said, his eyes like fire. The seed left moist trails on his soft skin and stuck to the stubbles of his beard. Some of it had started to dry on his auburn curls. It looked wanton, deliciously obscene and it made Jon's stomach turn in shame. _I've come to punish him, now he's the one to punish me._

"Do it." The pain in his temples was becoming intolerable.

"No," Robb said again. "Do you even like me, Jon Snow?"

Jon said nothing. He didn't want to say anything anymore. His lips had spewed enough poison for a lifetime.

"It could have been anyone, couldn't it, Jon?" Robb asked faintly. "Anyone who'd allow you to take out your anger and your hatred on them. Anyone who was of a higher birth than you. If Bran were the heir, would you have fucked him? If Sansa were the only Stark?"

Jon laced his breeches slowly and rearranged his tunic.

"I didn't choose this," Robb said. "I thought… I thought if I found who you really were, you'd… you'd not be so angry. You'd not hate me that much." And he wiped the semen off his lips only to latch his mouth to his finger and suck it. That gesture finally undid Jon. His legs were shaking under him.

 _I don't hate you, sweet Robb_. Jon fell to his knees in front of his brother. _I hate this. I wish I could spirit us both somewhere far away. That we could live in Braavos or Lys and just be happy. That I would not be so angry._

"When I've heard Father and Maester Luwin… I thought that was our chance to set things right. Like the games we played when we were little. We'd always find out that you were really a prince." _Aye, your lady mother hated those games_. Jon lifted his tunic and started cleaning Robb's face in slow, gentle movements. He wiped his soft locks, his pale skin, the curve of his neck that was always so sensitive to the touch.

"But we've never found anything, have we," Robb said, his breath hot on Jon's face. "Only what little we've heard in the library tower. I can't make any sense of it… I've tried. If only we could have heard what they said in the private study –"

And then he grabbed Jon's wrist and stopped him.

"What is it?" Jon asked, too surprised to remember that he had not wished to talk.

"We've both been fools, Jon," Robb said. His voice was once again steady. He impatiently held the edge of Jon's tunic and finished wiping the rest of the seed off his face. "The private study. That's where it's at."

 _The private study. Of course. We've been fools, aye, and I've been the greatest fool of us all. How can you still think of helping me, sweet Robb, after what I've done to you_? Jon pressed his brow to Robb's, and felt the hot pulses inside his head and the shameful wetness on his cheeks. The last time he had cried was when they'd had Lord and Lady Arryn visiting from King's Landing, and Lady Stark made it clear that he was not to join them at the high table for dinner. He had wept in the courtyard. He had desperately wanted somebody to hear it, to come and comfort him, to tell him that it would change, that one day he would be welcomed with his trueborn brother and sisters. There had been no one; no one had come. Jon had been six years old. Almost ten years later, the salt of his tears smeared on the remains of his semen on his trueborn brother's cheeks, the brother who would forever find himself at the head of the high table, whether he'd like to or not. They breathed into each other, trembling the last of their anger, and Jon's mouth found the warmth and forgiveness of his brother's lips.


	7. Zéro de Conduite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know," Theon brushed his thumbs gently over the pale skin of Robb's neck, "that you've never touched that wench. And I also know," his fingers rubbed his shoulders in slow circular motions, "that you've gotten yourself into a fine mess. And I know," he whispered the words in his ear so softly, and each syllable caused Robb's heart to flutter in fear, "that if anyone finds out, you're finished."
> 
> Chapter 7, in which secrets are revealed, oaths are taken and dreams are woven.

"Relax," Theon said. "Have a drink."

Robb was already quite drunk. That was the only reason he had let Theon sit him down behind the old windmill. The narrow stream flowed lazily by as the wind rustled through the tall grass. The sun was high in the noon sky, spreading waves of rare warmth over them. Theon was picking at the last remains of their impromptu lunch of blue cheese and dried figs, and Robb felt languid and content leaning against his friend, even though he knew he shouldn't. They were not supposed to stop here, nor tie their horses to the lone sentinel near the riverbank. He had told Theon that, he had. They were supposed to be looking for wolves.

They had left the castle two hours earlier, riding their palfreys east of Winterfell. For the last few days, the farmers around Winter Town had reported sightings of a large pack of wolves. A few missing sheep were found half-eaten in one of the surrounding pastures. That morning a filthy peasant woman had tried to force her way into the castle. She was barely restrained by Harwin as she tore off her mud-caked rags near the gatehouse, screaming in anguish. Her babe had disappeared from the doorsteps of her hut ( _taken by the wolves, no doubt_ ), Mikken had later explained to Robb and Jon, who had watched the entire ordeal from the practice yard. The agony of losing her child had caused her to lose her mind as well. They had carried her to the Maester's Turret, where they had laid her down on the featherbed. She had writhed and thrashed, foam forming at the sides of her mouth and her eyes rolling in their sockets, until she had breathed her last.

Robb hadn't seen the dead peasant woman, but the thought of her still made him queasy. _How quickly we perish_. He reached for the wine pouch again and felt Theon's hands touching his shoulders. His chest was sinewy and hard against Robb's back. Arya had peeked inside, though, when a silent sister had arrived to collect the corpse. His little sister had claimed that the dead woman's mouth was still open in a silent scream, even after the gods had taken her spirit.

An hour later the hunting parties had been formed. Jon had ridden with Jory Cassel, Harwin had gone with Farlen and the hounds, and Robb had been sent with Theon. _It'd have been nice to go with Jon instead_ , Robb had thought wistfully as he had saddled his horse and filled his arrow bag. They had very little time to see each other after the incident in the Great Hall. Somehow Jon had been constantly given chores which had kept him away from his half-brother, and Robb had a strong suspicion it was his lady mother's doing. Whether it was because of her mislike of Jon or because of the fistfight in the Great Hall, he could not tell. He still felt embarrassed thinking of it, of the way he had lost control, and then, the awful way it had felt so _good_ to give Jon a taste of his own medicine. Even worse were the rebukes his lord father had saved for him when he had visited his bedchamber later that evening. He was ashamed of Robb's behaviour; Robb's conduct was not fit for a young lord and an heir, his father had said. _Secretly I resent him for it_ , Robb thought with a shudder.

What's more, that forced segregation between the half-brothers had prevented them from making any progress in examining the secrets which surely awaited them in the private study. Robb had managed to find his way inside once or twice with his lord father, but he barely had a moment to look around before Lord Eddard had sat him down to write a lengthy and sleep-inducing letter to Lord Glover in Deepwood Motte. Jon's attempts had been even less successful. The private study was locked at all times, and lockpicking was one skill which Maester Luwin had neglected to teach them.

Now Jon was riding west of Winterfell with Jory, and it was Theon's hands on Robb's shoulders. His fingers slowly curled over the arch of his neck and started kneading his tense muscles. Robb took a generous sip from the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. They were not supposed to sit here by the broken windmill. They were supposed to ride east with the stream and look for wolves. _I got me a wolf right here_ , Theon had laughed when Robb had told him so, and then he had shown him the golden wine, the ripe blue cheese and the dried fruits he had taken from the kitchens.

"It's okay, lad," Theon said as Robb slightly twitched under his touch. "Just like that, relax."

"What – what are you doing?" Robb asked. _This isn't right_. The wine had gone to his head far too quickly. It was not as fine a drink as the Arbor gold the kitchens kept for large feasts, but it was a potent beverage nonetheless. Despite himself, Robb found he was leaning back against Theon.

"Don't worry," Theon said. "I won't touch you like Snow does."

This time Robb tried to jerk away, startled, but Theon's hands pushed him back down against his chest. "You're not leaving, lad," Theon said and his fingers resumed their kneading of Robb's shoulders. "Just like that, nice and slow. Relax. We're going to have us a little chat now, you and I."

Robb stilled against him and forced himself to breathe regularly. _No matter what he knows, if I don't tell him anything, he cannot use it against me_. "I'm listening," he said.

"I know," Theon brushed his thumbs gently over the pale skin of Robb's neck, "that you've never touched that wench. And I also know," his fingers rubbed his shoulders in slow circular motions, "that you've gotten yourself into a fine mess. And I know," he whispered the words in his ear so softly, and each syllable caused Robb's heart to flutter in fear, "that if anyone finds out, you're finished."

"Is that so?" Robb said flatly.

Theon cocked his brow at him, his fingers now drumming lightly on his collarbone. "Am I your brother, Robb?"

"You are." _One brother ties me to his bed; the other threatens me with soft fingers._

"I told you I mean to protect you," Theon said. "I told you true. You need to start talking to me before it's too late."

"I have nothing to tell you," Robb fidgeted, trying to move away.

"No more lying, Robb. Relax," Theon pulled him closer now, trapping him between his sturdy arms, his voice oddly coaxing. "Let me help you."

The thought of confiding his terrible desires in someone was so tempting that for a moment Robb felt nothing but his pulsing heart against his friend's arms, and that sickeningly sweet taste of surrender. To be able to unload some of that maddening confusion into someone else's shoulders, what bliss it could be. _So far I've had just Jon to talk to, and Jon doesn't do talking so well._ Robb could still feel his knees on the cold stone floor, the weight of his cloak on his shoulders, the hot seed spurting on his face, and that hollow, piercing humiliation. He wriggled a little against his cage of Theon's arms to grab the wine pouch, and took another healthy swig.

"What does Snow do to you?" Theon asked softly.

Robb closed his eyes. "Everything," he whispered.

"I knew it," said Theon. "I knew it."

"Does it disgust you?" Robb asked.

Theon shrugged. "Is he the only one?"

Robb nodded.

"Has he forced you?"

Robb shook his head. _Well, not really. Not exactly._

"Do you like it?"

Robb took another sip, then nodded. _Gods help me, I do. I always like it afterwards._

"Well, lad, to be honest," Theon said and his hands were back on his shoulders, now that he decided Robb wasn't going to try and sprint off, "I don't really care. If I told you of some of the wenches I've fucked you'd be heaving your lunch. I'm more surprised that you two could figure out what goes where." Theon gave his shoulders a squeeze. "He fucks you, doesn't he?"

Robb flushed, and Theon nodded. "That's what bothers me," he said.

"What bothers you?" Robb asked. _If I was the one to do the fucking, would that be okay?_ In some traditional way it did make more sense for Jon to submit to him. Robb was the heir, the highborn, the future Lord of Winterfell. He should be the one doing the taking, not the one on all fours, on his side, on his stomach, moaning in pain and desperation as Jon thrusts into him. _Is that what bothers you, Theon? Not the buggery, not the incest, but the disregard for hierarchy?_

"This isn't just fucking, is it, Robb?" Theon's voice was low and husky in his ear. "It's about power. You're a Stark, but a Snow is making you serve him. Why would he risk it?"

Robb looked again at Theon's dark blue eyes, all too aware of his fingers still rubbing on his shoulders. He felt his breath thickening in his chest. _Do you even like me, Jon Snow?_ He had asked Jon, his face dripping with his half-brother's semen. _It could have been anyone, couldn't it, Jon?_ Jon had not replied, at least not in words, and Robb had been left wondering.

"And why would I?" He asked in return. _Because I've fallen; I'm truly and forever doomed by my sick desires._

"That's hardly the same," Theon shook his head. "Do you know what would happen to him if anyone found out?"

"He'd be sent to the Wall."

"No," Theon said. "If you two are caught, lad, the bastard would take the fall for you. He would be beheaded."

 _No_ , Robb thought, _Father would not behead his own son, not for this_. But was Jon truly his father's own son? _I did what I could for him_ , their father had said in the library tower. If Jon was someone else's son, if Jon was a threat to the crown in some way, and if Jon was now overstepping his boundaries and becoming a threat to House Stark as well, who could very well predict what their lord father would do?

"I'm sure you're a sweet thing to have under the furs," Theon continued, _and his hands, gods, they just won't stop moving_. _Why won't he take his hands off me?_ "But that's not why he's risking his life, is it?"

"Then why would he?" _To let out his anger, to humiliate me, who has all that Jon covets._ Somehow it didn't seem reason enough.

"There's something only you can give him," Theon said.

"Legitimise him," Robb nodded. "But I would. Even without… This." _Your son sees the boy as his own brother_ , Maester Luwin had said, _and if the Snow becomes a Stark…_

"Would you, truly?" asked Theon. "Even after you marry and spawn little wolves of your own? Have you been paying any attention to your history lessons?"  

"What is your point, Greyjoy?"

"My point, Stark," Theon said and his hands rested over Robb's neck. "It's about power. I've told you he's not your friend. He's setting you apart from your family. The day would come when he'd ask you to put him before them."

"It's about power," Robb repeated uncertainly after Theon's words. _Do you even like me, Jon Snow?_

"Bastards," Theon caressed his cheek gently. "They were conceived of betrayal. They know nothing else."

"Theon -" Robb's stomach was churning to the steady advance of Theon's fingers, from his cheek to the curl of his lip. _This has gone far enough_.

"Hush, relax," Theon said. His thumb stroked the line of Robb's jaw.

"Take your hands off me," Robb said. "Now."

Theon chuckled and then released Robb from his grip. "That's the wolf I've been looking for," he said. "You can say the words when you want to. Now go and say them to your bastard brother."

 

What he did say to his bastard brother was _faster, Snow, faster_ , as Jon quickly wanked him off in that dark nook between the Great Hall and the outer castle wall. Jon's riding clothes were still covered in mud and wolf blood. The sight of his half-brother riding back to the castle, wild and proud with the gigantic wolf corpse tied to his horse, had Robb so deeply stirred that he could barely contain himself before he and Jon managed to slip away from the rest of the hunting group. Only when his half-brother's fingers finally wrapped around his cock did Robb realise how hot and bothered he had been since his little chat with Theon and his pesky fingers. _And if Jon wants me to put him before my family, before some lady wife I know nothing about, then why not_ , Robb thought in that deafening pleasure as he spent himself, held tightly in his half-brother's arms. _Even if it's all about power. If he likes me, then why not, why not_. Jon latched his mouth onto his neck, sucking on his skin just below the hem of the tunic, in the boundaries of visibility. As Robb slackened in his arms he stopped to whisper in his ear: "I've got the key, Stark."

 _And isn't it so very much like Jon?_ Robb later thought as he closed the door to his bedchamber behind him, silently creeping along the corridor as silent as a mouse, or at least as silent as a little lord should be when he's sneaking out of his bedchamber at midnight in a castle full of watchful and unfriendly eyes. _Who else would even think of it? I surely wouldn't_. When the rest of them had been holding the thrashing peasant down to the mattress and helping the Maester pour a foul concoction into her mouth, his half-brother had slipped behind the Maester's desk and helped himself to the spare key chain. "He didn't even notice," Jon had boasted in Robb's ear during dinner. "He was too busy." _Too busy trying to save that woman's life, aye_.

It wasn't as though Jon had hurt that woman, now was it? There was nothing he could have done to change her fate. Her spirit had belonged with the gods from the moment that wolf's jowls had closed on her babe. And Jon had put an arrow through that beast; he had brought revenge to the dead mother and had put her soul to rest. Let it not be said that the Starks did not protect their smallfolks. Perhaps stealing the key was not the honourable thing to do, but Jon had just been taking advantage of the situation to the best of his ability. _Just like he does with me_. And now they had the key to the private study, and at long last, they would perhaps find the answers they had been seeking. _Who are you really, Jon?_ Robb wondered as he sailed down the stairs of the Great Keep, his excitement making him take the stone steps two by two.

Jon was waiting for him, leaning on the wall of the Great Hall with his grey cloak wrapped around him. The lazy noon warmth had been replaced with a chilly summer wind as the moon travelled across the bright night sky. Robb was reminded of a chilly night not so long ago, a lifetime ago, when fever and Arbor gold had brought him dizzy and confused out of a feast and into Jon's hands.

"Shouldn't be long now," Jon whispered in his ear as they sneaked together along the wall. The inner gate to the courtyard was raised, but the guards were still walking the parapets. "Wyl and Tomard will start rolling their dice soon enough."

Just as Jon had said, after a few moments of wait, the watchman on the post ( _Tomard, if to judge by the heavy shadow_ ) walked into the guardhouse, where the sounds of lively conversation could be heard. The two boys seized the opportunity. They quickly passed through the open inner gate and scuttled through the outer courtyard, careful to keep close to the smithy and the stables before cutting their way to the library tower. Robb shot a look back to the wall before taking the first step up the external staircase ( _"Make it quick, Stark", Jon had told him a lifetime ago_ ), but the guards were still in their cups and dice.

The library door closed silently after them, and Robb felt Jon's breath over his nape as their footsteps reverberated over the stone floor. The key chain Jon had taken off the Maester's desk had over forty different keys in it, big and small, silvery and bronze and golden, ancient looking and newly wrought, and Robb leant against one of the wooden cabinets as his half-brother tried them one by one. For a while he was worried that the right key was not even there and everything had been for nothing, but then Jon gave a pleased sound of triumph and the lock clicked open.

It didn't take them long to find what they were looking for. The letters were lined up neatly in the middle drawer of their lord father's writing desk, as if waiting for Jon to thumb through them, for Robb to stare at the words blankly.

"Well," Jon said after a long moment of silence. "You definitely are popular."

He was pacing the length of the room, a long parchment in his hand, while Robb was leaning over the desk, studying the other few documents, his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes squinting in front of the faint light of the single tallow candle they had dared to light.

"Arianne Martell, isn't she quite _old_?" Robb asked, perplexed. "Why would Sunspear suddenly require an alliance with Winterfell so badly? Just look at all that they offer Father. And then, Princess Myrcella as well?" he grimaced. "That letter was not sent from King's Landing, though. That's a Lannister seal. Why would the Lannisters negotiate this marriage offer?"

"And Father has just flat out refused them like he's refused Lord Karstark," Jon said.

"But then look at the letters from Highgarden."

"Aye," Jon nodded. "Father definitely wants a union with the Tyrells."

"They drive a hard bargain, though. I don't think they're interested."

"Don't take it personal, Stark," Jon said. "So what do you make of it?"

"That I don't see what it has to do with you," Robb frowned.

"Mayhaps it had nothing to do with me in the first place," Jon muttered, apparently cross. He put the letter from Highgarden back on the desk next to the rest of the marriage correspondence.

It was possible that it was all indeed about Robb's future lady wife, _a Martell or a Tyrell or a Baratheon_. They could have been discussing what to do with Jon once his half-brother was married. Perhaps Maester Luwin thought it wise to keep the bastard brother away at least until an heir had been secured. _Theon said as much, as would Mother if I were to ask her._ Still, it didn't feel right to Robb. Their father's conversation with Maester Luwin had a sense of urgency and a certain layer of fear to it. There was something he and Jon had missed. Robb glared back at the letters, as if willing them to reveal their secrets by the force of his gaze.

"Look," he mumbled. "They don't just discuss me. It's a long list of exchanges. King's Landing would make Bran squire; Dorne would take both Bran and Rickon. With Highgarden we're discussing trade routes and pacts. We'd buy their crops at a fixed rate – not a very generous rate, either. The Lannisters offer holdings for lease by the Riverlands."

"That's the way it usually is," Jon said. "Trade and treaties. You shouldn't expect any gallantry there."

Robb's frown deepened, however. His recent work with his lord father, as achingly dull as it sometimes was, had taught him a few things about deciphering those proposals and correspondences Lord Stark seemed to incessantly receive. _They are never what they seem to be_ , his lord father had told him, _and they would dazzle you with words and offerings until you lose sight of what they're truly after. Seek the meaning within, Robb. Never answer before you understand their goal_. There was a point which the entire correspondence seemed to revolve around, to come back to. Sometimes it would be in the beginning of the letters, sometimes hidden between long lists detailing annual production of peaches and grapes. But it was always there.

"You," Robb mumbled. "Here, _in addition Sunspear would foster Lord Stark's natural son_ , there, there. And the Lannisters too, _will take five pages and squires according to House Stark's choosing, including Lord Stark's natural son_ , that's tricky, I almost missed it. And Highgarden, it's also there. Father wants them to take you." Suddenly it was clear; it all became lucidly clear in his head. _I am our father's true son after all. I can now tell a ruse when I see one._

That also grabbed Jon's interest. He came to stand next to Robb, his hand covering his half-brother's hand as he leant over the letters. "So what do you say?" he asked. "It's quite uncommon, is it not?"

"I'd say. It's very uncommon for a major house to foster a Lord's natural son. It's very uncommon that all the proposals insist on it, that Father insists on it." Robb thumbed through the letters again. "I'd say I don't think they want _me_ at all."

Jon looked back at him.

"I think they want you," Robb said. "I think you're important for some reason, and other houses know it. I think Father wants you tucked away in the Reach before anyone else can get you. I think he's using me to protect you."

Jon's hand tightened over his hand as he looked down at the desk and their cheeks pressed close together. "I think, Snow," Robb said quietly, "that you're probably more important than I'll ever be."

In the quiet of the private study, by the faint light of the tallow candle and Jon's shallow breaths, Robb wondered. _Who are you really, Jon, and why do they want you so much?_ He wondered if Jon's secret was important enough for Father to sell his firstborn to protect it. Was he protecting Jon, the crown, or something entirely different? And would he really sentence Jon to death if he found out about this, about them? _And what is it about us, Jon? Is it the incest, the buggery or the hierarchy? Do you even like me, Jon Snow?_

"More important than the little heir, huh?" Jon's voice was hoarse when he turned to look at him. "Who would've thought?" He took his hand off Robb's and stepped back around the desk to the other side of the study. He slowly eased himself into their lord father's armchair by the hearth. _The armchair, the seat of the Lord of Winterfell._ That was where Lord Stark had dictated his letters to his son; that was where he had discussed his plans with the Maester; that was where he had retired when an important decision had to be made. And that was where Jon now leant back, his eyes fixed on Robb, his hands on the armrests.

"On your knees before me, Stark," Jon ordered.

Robb's immediate intention was to obey. He had grown used to it, doing what Jon had told him to do without questions or objections. Sometimes the mere sound of Jon's commanding voice was enough to make him hard. _I always like it afterwards, I do_ ; _he's broken me completely._ He had a pretty clear idea as to what Jon wanted him to do. He would have Robb kneel before him as Jon sat their father's seat, the bastard in the Lord's seat as the heir to Winterfell crawled to him on all fours. He would have him take his cock into his mouth, a thing he had talked about and threatened him with, but had never actually ordered him to do. He would have him taste his cock, lick its length from balls to tip and purse his lips over the swollen head, flutter his tongue over its slit, moist with precome. He would forcefully yank on his hair and have Robb attempt not to gag as his half-brother fucked his mouth.

 _The day would come when he'd ask you to put him before your family,_ Theon had said. Is it not what he had been doing every day, though? Jon had Robb lying to his lady mother and to his lord father. He had him blaspheme the sept and the new gods, his lady mother's gods. He had him taint the maidenhood and innocence of his favourite sister, even if only by way of imagination. He had put those appalling thoughts inside his head until Robb could barely look Lady Catelyn in the eye. Even throughout each dinner he had rested his palm on Robb's thigh under the table, as if asserting ownership in front of the entire Stark line. In all likelihood, that day Theon had been talking about had already come and passed when Jon had fucked him into the shutters of a prayer booth in _the sept_. Now Robb was about to surrender his name and dignity once more, sucking the bastard's cock on the lord's seat. _But why not, why not. My mother sees me as a disappointment, my father sees me as a shame. I would submit, I would. But, do you even like me, Jon Snow?_

Robb swallowed and took a deep breath, bracing himself. _I'm the wolf Theon was looking for. I can say the words when I want to_.

"No," he said. "It's high time that we talked."

Surprise flashed in Jon's face, quickly replaced by anger. "What is it, Stark?" he said slowly, his eyes burning by the candlelight. _Jon, he doesn't do talking so well._

"Get off my father's seat and stand before me," Robb ordered.

For a tense moment they were both glaring at each other, Jon's eyes livid, Robb's eyes as still and determined as he could will them to be. Inside he was shaking violently. He had no idea if Jon would comply or… or what? What _would_ he do to him? What _could_ he do to him?

Then Jon rose from the armchair. "Fine," he said and took a step towards his half-brother. Robb wanted to step back from him, suddenly very afraid of the wild rage in Jon's eyes and the briskness of his movements, but he forced himself to stay still. _I am the wolf_.

"Swear that you would answer me true," Robb said. "I need to know."

Another moment of silence. Then: "I swear."

"You risk your life doing this, do you not?"

"Aye," Jon said.

"Father would behead you had he known."

"Possibly," Jon allowed. "Is it a surprise to you, Stark? Were you thinking just of your own fate?"

Of course Robb had only thought of himself. He had thought of his lady mother's horror, of his lord father's revulsion and shame, of the soulless icy winds of the Wall, but never of what might happen to Jon. Clenching his jaw, he brushed Jon's question off his mind. He could not afford to be distracted if he wanted to receive the answers to which he was entitled.

"You like that power over me," Robb carried on. "But is it worth risking your life for?"

Jon glared at him, but didn't answer.

"What are you truly after, Jon?"

"I think," Jon said slowly, "that you already know."

 _I do, gods, I do_. _I can now tell a ruse when I see one_. "You wanted me to legitimise you," Robb said slowly, checking for reaction in his half-brother's eyes. "But you knew that no matter what I say now, when I sit the throne of Winterfell, when I have a family and children of my own, I might think very differently." Jon remained motionless. "And so, you thought… to take the wife's place. To make me dependent on you. To make yourself more than a brother."

The look in Jon's gleaming eyes was all the answer he needed.

"How important was this for you?" he asked faintly. "How far were you willing to go?"

"Far enough," Jon said.

"And if I had a lady wife?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't," Jon shrugged. "Not if I told you not to. I expected that by then you'd care more about me than about," he waved his hand across the room, " _them_."

"Was it all about this, then? Your name? The castle?"

"At first, aye." Jon said. "When I saw the way you looked at me, I knew… I knew I could trap you."

"And seclude me."

"Aye."

"And then break me."

"And then break you, aye." Jon said. "It's like you've been waiting for me to do so. All I had to do was to push you, Stark."

"Would you have hurt me, Jon?" Robb asked. He kept his gaze steadily fixed on his half-brother. _I am the wolf, aye, but Jon's put an arrow through that beast_.

"Never," Jon said and looked back at him just as firmly. "Never."

"Would you have hurt any of mine? A wife? Children? My trueborn siblings?"

"Never."

His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, and he had to force himself with all his remaining strength not to bite on his bottom lip. _He will answer this time._ _He must. I need to know_.

"Do you even like me, Jon Snow?"

Jon's moist eyes were all the answer he needed, but this time Jon said it. "Aye," he mumbled. His voice was no more than a whisper, barely audible, when he added: "Love you, Robb Stark."

Robb swallowed. _I am the wolf_ , he reminded himself. "Get on your knees before me," he said. "Swear me your loyalty. Swear me your love."

Jon seemed taken aback for a moment, and then he nodded. He dropped to his knees before Robb, his hands to his sides. _A lifetime ago, his hands were clutching my hips. He took me into his mouth. He swatted me when I closed my eyes. He knew he could trap me and break me._

"Swear to me," Robb said.

Jon raised his eyes to look at him as he slowly found his words. "I swear to you, Robb." His voice was soft. "I swear my loyalty, my true allegiance and my love, to you and to your heirs and successors, by the old gods of the North. I would live for you, Robb. I would die for you."

Robb put his hands on Jon's shoulders, fighting the tears welling in his eyes. "And I swear to you, Jon, by the old gods and the new gods and my love for you, I would make you my heir."

Jon's hands rose from his sides to entwine with Robb's hands on his shoulders; a tremor went through his body. They stayed posed this way for a long while, Robb standing by the desk, Jon on his knees, their fingers tangled together, the moonlight washing over them through the high windows.

When Jon finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, his words hesitant. _This is not a game anymore_ , Robb thought and tightened his hold on his brother's shoulders. "Do you, Robb," Jon murmured, "do you want to fuck me instead?"

In some ways, it made more sense. _I am the wolf, I should do the taking_. In the same ways, however, it would make sense for Robb to marry Margaery Tyrell or Myrcella Baratheon, and it would make sense to send Jon to Oldtown or to the Wall, and it would make absolutely no sense to give his bastard brother his name and his heart. This was not what he truly wanted, and damned be the incest, the buggery and the fucking hierarchy. If Jon was conceived of betrayal, then Robb was conceived of duty, and now he cared neither for one nor for the other.

"No," he whispered back. "Do what you always do. But this time, look me in the eye."

 

How they had found themselves back in his bedchamber, Robb did not know, but now they undressed each other slowly and tenderly as if it was their first night together.

Robb stumbled backwards as he was trying to take off his breeches, his lust and exhaustion getting the better of him, and he fell down with his back to the furs of his bed with Jon on top of him. He lifted his head and their lips met, mouths hungry and fervent, tongues rubbing against each other, hopelessly trying to find the right rhythm. Robb tugged despairingly on the wool of his breeches. As they finally deigned to slide down, Jon's mouth slithered along his neck to his shoulders, marking the length of his sweat-drenched skin with nibbles and bites.

"Do it, do it, Jon," he heard himself begging at some point later, between moans and groans and the clash of skin against skin. Jon had one hand pinning Robb down to the furs, the other under his ass, his middle finger stretching him and loosening him down to a whimpering huddle of shivering limbs. Robb wrapped his arm around his brother's neck, pulled him down to a desperate kiss, wet and sloppy, as another finger entered him, moving slowly back and forth, restraining him into his bed until he could not move even if he wanted to.

"Do it, Jon, do it," he begged into his brother's mouth, raising his chest to rub against him, wriggling his body around Jon's fingers. Jon passed his hand through Robb's damp curls, and then tugged on his hair to silence his squirming to a halt.

"Can't wait, Robb?" he mumbled. "Keep quiet, keep still."

His brother's fingers were out of him, and Jon led his erection into him as their mouths found each other again. And it still hurt when he entered, but Robb groaned his pain into his brother's mouth as Jon sucked on his lips and quietened his tremors with a strong hand on his brow, tangled in his messy auburn locks. He moved slowly, each thrust accompanied with a bite on Robb's lips and a pull on his hair. Robb's arms tightened around his neck.

"Open your eyes, Jon," he implored. "Look at me."

Dark grey eyes, firm and determined, watched bright blue eyes, lost to a wave of shocking pleasure as Jon moved faster inside of him, slamming him down to the feather mattress, his stomach rubbing on Robb's erection, his balls thumping into his buttocks.

"Harder, harder, Jon," Robb begged. "I can take it, I can take it."

"Can you, Robb?" Jon groaned. "Can you take everything I'll put you through?"

"Aye, aye," Robb mumbled over and over. "Everything."

"We swore to each other," Jon said solemnly. "Never refuse me again."

"Never," Robb swore.

"You're mine, Robb," he slammed harder into him. "Your name, your birthright."

"Everything," Robb promised him. "Harder, Jon, harder, please…"

Jon then complied eagerly, each of his thrusts eliciting a desperate moan from his brother, and Robb sent his hand to entangle with Jon's hand by his side. He moved their entwined hands together to rest on his swollen erection, their fingers wrapping as one around his length as Jon's cock buried inside of him to the hilt.

Their mouths were joined, their noses pressed together and their eyes open as Robb tensed, cried his release into his brother's lips and slackened down against the mattress. Waves of warmth spread inside of him and left his body limp, pliantly spread apart and ready for Jon to plunge harder into him, break him and own him, until he too panted into their jumbled limbs and spent inside of him.

They lied breathless in one another's arms, their skin incredibly warm and glistening with sweat and seed. When the weight of his brother became too much to bear, Robb fidgeted and Jon pulled out and collapsed next to him, letting out a deep, almost guttural sigh. Too tired to move, they silently looked in each other's eyes until they fell asleep together, fingers still entwined.

And in a way it was their first night together, not as Stark and Snow, the heir and the bastard, but just as Robb and Jon, brothers sharing their furs in a cold and silent northern castle through the last days of summer.

In the darkness, Robb and Jon dreamt.


End file.
